a 


By  "Wymond  Carey 


MONSIEUR   MARTIN 

A    ROMANCE    OF   THE    GREAT 
SWEDISH  WAR 

Crown  octavo.    (By  mail,  $1.35.)    Net,  $1.20 


"NO.  1O1" 

Illustrated.    Crown  octavo.     $1.50. 


G.    P.    Putnam's    Sons 
Jfew  York  London 


The  Vicomte  henceforth  cannot  without  harming  himself 
visit  publicly  a  bourgeoise  grisette." 

(Seepage 


"No.  ior 


BY 


Wymond  Carey 

Author  of"  Monsieur  Martin,"  "  For  the  White  Rose,"  etc. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  and  London 
Untcfeerbocfeer  press 
1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Ube  ftnicbcrbocher  ptees,  Hew  £»orfe 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


•  But  still,  Beloved,  the  best  of  all  my  bringing! 
Belongs  to  you." 


2228449 


NOTE 

THERE  was  a  real  "No.  101."  Unpublished  MS. 
despatches  now  in  the  Record  Office  of  the  British 
Museum  reveal  the  interesting  fact  that  on  more  than 
one  occasion  the  British  Government  obtained  im- 
portant French  state  secrets  through  an  agent  known 
to  the  British  ministers  as  "  No.  101."  Who  this 
mysterious  agent  was,  whether  it  was  a  man  or  a 
woman,  why  and  how  he  or  she  so  successfully  played 
the  part  of  a  traitor,  have  not,  so  far  as  is  known  to  the 
present  writer,  been  discovered  by  historians  or  archiv- 
ists. The  references  in  the  confidential  correspondences 
supply  no  answer  to  such  questions.  If  the  British 
ministers  knew  all  the  truth,  they  kept  it  to  them- 
selves, and  it  perished  with  them.  Doubtless  there 
were  good  reasons  for  strict  secrecy.  But  it  is  more 
than  possible  that  they  themselves  did  not  know,  that 
throughout  they  simply  dealt  with  a  cipher  whose 
secret  they  never  penetrated.  It  is,  however,  clear 
that  "  No.  101 "  was  in  a  position  to  discover  some  of 
the  most  intricate  designs  in  the  policy  of  the  French 
Court,  and  that  the  British  Government,  through  its 


vi  Note 

agents,  was  satisfied  of  the  genuineness  of  the  secrets 
for  which  it  paid  handsomely. 

On  the  undoubted  existence  of  this  mysterious  cipher, 
and  the  riddles  that  that  existence  suggests,  the  writer 
has  based  his  historical  romance. 


CONTENTS 


I.  "No.  101" 


II.  ONE-FOURTH  OP  A  SECRET  AND  THREE-FOURTHS 

OF  A  MYSTERY 12 

III.  A  FAIR  HUNTRESS  AND  THE  GIRL  WITH  THE 

SPOTTED  Cow 26 

IV.  A  LOVER'S  TRICK 39 

V.  THE  PRESUMPTION  OF  A  BEARDLESS  CHEVALIER  53 

VI.  THE  WISE  WOMAN  OF  "THE  COCK  WITH  THE 

SPURS  OF  GOLD  " 66 

VII.  THE  KING'S  HANDKERCHIEF       ....  78 

VIII.  THE  VlVANDIERE  OF  FONTENOY    ....  95 

IX.  AT   THE  CHARCOAL-BURNER'S   CABIN   IN  THE 

WOODS 109 

X.  FONTENOY 121 

XI.  IN  THE  SALON  DE  LA  PAIX  AT  VERSAILLES  .       .  137 

XII.  A  ROYAL  GRISETTE 149 

XIII.  WHAT  THE  VICOMTE  DE  NERAC  SAW  IN  THE 

SECRET  PASSAGE 160 

XIV.  Two  PAGES  IN  THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE       .       .       .171 
XV.  ANDRE  is  THRICE  SURPRISED       .       .        .        .182 

XVI.  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  NEPTUNE         ....  196 

xvii.  DENISE'S  ANSWER 207 

vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  POMPADOUR      .       .       .220 
XIX.  THE  FW>WER  GIRI,  OF  "  THE  GAU.OWS  AND 

THE  THREE  CROWS" 231 

XX.  AT  HOME  WITH  A  CIPHER 244 

XXI.  THE  KING'S  COMMISSION 253 

XXII.  ON  SECRET  SERVICE 264 

XXIII.  THE  KING  FAINTS 274 

XXIV.  A  WISHED-FOR  MIRACLE 285 

XXV.  THE  FALL  OF  THE  DICE 297 

XXVI.  THE  THIEF  OF  THE  SECRET  DESPATCH    .       .    308 

XXVII.  THE  CHEVALIER  MAKES  HIS  LAST  APPEARANCE    319 

xxvin.  THE  CARREFOUR  DE  ST.  ANTOINE  No.  3  .       .330 

XXIX.  ANDRE  FAILS  TO  DECIDE 339 

XXX.  DENISE  HAS  TO  DECIDE  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME  .  354 

XXXI.  FORTUNE'S  BANTER 366 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOB 

"THE  VICOMTE  HENCEFORTH  CANNOT  WITHOUT 
HARMING  HIMSELF  VISIT  PUBLICLY  A  BOVRGEOISB 
GRISETTE" Frontispiece 

STATHAM  SAT  PONDERING,  His  EYES  RIVITED  ON  THE 

CROSSED  DAGGERS 6 

"Is  THAT  LETTER  TO  THE  COMTESSE  DES  FORGES, 
ONE  OF  MY  FRIENDS — MY  FRiENDSt  MON  Disul — 
YOURS,  OR  Is  IT  NOT?" 48 

"FAIR  ARCHERESS,"  HE  SAID,  "SURETY  THE  SHAFTS 
You  LOOSE  ARE  MORTAR  " 88 

YES,  THAT  is  MONSEIGNEUR  LE  MARECHAL  DE  SAXE, 
CARRIED  IN  A  WICKER  LITTER,  FOR  HE  CANNOT 
SIT  His  HORSE 124 

MADAME  DE  POMPADOUR 188 

THE  CURTAIN  WAS  SHARPLY  FLUNG  ASIDE,  AND  HE 

SAW  DENISE 204 

YVONNE  VERY  MODESTLY  DISENGAGED  THE  ARM  WHICH 
FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME  HE  HAD  SLIPPED  ABOUT  HER 
SUPPLE  WAIST 234 


Illustrations 

PAGE 


YVONNE  WITH  A  FINGER  TO  HER  IJPS,  HOLDING  HER 
PETTICOATS  OFF  THE  FIX>OR,  STOI,E  IN,  AND  BEHIND 
HER  A  STRANGER  .......  268 

THE  CANDLE  FEU.  FROM  HER  HAND.  "GONE!"  SHE 
M  UTTERED  FEEBI.Y,  "GONE!"  .....  320 

"YVONNE,  OF  COURSE;  YVONNE  OF  THE  SPOTI.ESS 
ANKI,ES,M  SHE  LIFTED  HER  DRESS  A  FEW  INCHES  .  350 


NO.    101. 


NO.  101 

CHAPTER  I 
"No.  101" 

ONE  evening  in  the  January  of  1745,  the  critical  year 
of  Fontenoy  and  of  the  great  Jacobite  rising,  a  middle- 
aged  gentleman,  the  private  secretary  of  a  Secretary  of 
State,  was  working  as  usual  in  the  room  of  a  house  in 
Cleveland  Row.  The  table  at  which  he  sat  was  littered 
with  papers,  but  at  this  precise  moment  he  had  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  puzzled  expression  and  his  left 
hand  in  perplexity  pushed  his  wig  awry. 

"Extraordinary,"  he  muttered,  "most  extraordi- 
nary." The  remark  was  apparently  caused  by  an 
official  letter  in  his  other  hand — a  letter  marked  "  Most 
Private,"  which  came  from  The  Hague,  and  the  passage 
which  he  had  just  read  ran: 

"  1 'have  the  honour  to  submit  to  you  the  following  important 
communication  in  cipher,  received,  through  our  agent  at  Paris, 
from  '  No.  101,'  "  etc. 

On  the  table  lay  the  cipher  communication  together 


2  No.  ioi 

with  a  decoded  version  which  the  secretary  now  studied 
for  the  third  time.  In  explicit  language  the  despatch 
supplied  detailed  information  as  to  certain  recent  highly 
confidential  negotiations  between  the  Jacobite  party  in 
Paris  and  the  French  King,  I/>uis  XV. ,  a  revelation  in 
short  of  the  most  weighty  state  secrets  of  the  French 
Government. 

"  '  No.  101,'  "  the  secretary  murmured,  scratching 
his  head,  "always '  No.  ioi.'  It  is  marvellous,  incredi- 
ble. How  the  devil  can  it  be  done  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  this  question,  save  the 
fact  which  provoked  it — that  closely  ciphered  paper 
with  its  disquieting  information  so  curiously  and  mys- 
teriously obtained. 

"  Ah."  He  jumped  up  and  hurriedly  straightened 
his  wig.  "  Good  evening  to  you." 

The  new-comer  was  a  man  of  about  five-and-thirty, 
tall,  finely  built,  and  of  a  muscular  physique,  with  a 
face  of  considerable  power.  Most  noticeable,  perhaps, 
in  his  appearance  was  his  air  of  disciplined  reserve,  em- 
phasised in  his  strong  mouth  and  chin,  but  almost  be- 
lied by  the  glow  in  his  large,  dark  eyes,  which  looked 
you  through  and  through  with  a  strangely  watchful 
innocence. 

"There  is  work  to  be  done,  sir?"  he  asked  as  he 
took  the  chair  offered. 

Exactly.  To-day  we  have  received  most  gratifying 
and  surprising  information  from  our  friend  '  No.  ioi ' 
— and  we  have  the  promise  of  more." 


No.  101  3 

"  Yes."  The  brief  monosyllable  was  spoken  almost 
softly,  but  the  dark  eyes  gleamed,  as  they  roamed  over 
the  room. 

"  The  communications  from  '  No.  101 '  have  begun 
again,"  the  secretary  pursued;  "  that  in  itself  is  inter- 
esting. The  Secretary  of  State  therefore  desired  me  to 
send  at  once  for  you,  the  most  trustworthy  secret  agent 
we  have.  In  a  very  few  minutes  Captain  Statham  of 
the  First  Foot  Guards  will  be  here — " 

' '  Sent,  I  think,  from  the  I^ow  Countries  at  the  re- 
quest of  our  agents  at  The  Hague  ? ' ' 

"Ah,  I  see  you  are  as  well  informed  as  usual.  You 
are  quite  right.  Are  you,"  he  laughed,  "ever 
wrong  ? ' ' 

The  spy  paused.  "  The  communications  then  from 
'  No.  101 '  concern  the  military  operations  ? ' '  was  all 
he  said. 

"  Not  yet.  But,"  he  almost  laughed,  "  we  have  a 
promise  they  will.  You  know  the  situation.  This 
will  be  a  critical  year  in  Flanders.  Great  Britain  and 
her  allies  propose  to  make  a  great,  an  unprecendented 
effort;  his  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Cumberland 
will  have  the  supreme  command.  Unhappily  the 
French  under  the  Mar6chal  de  Saxe  apparently  pro- 
pose to  make  even  greater  efforts.  With  such  a  gen- 
eral as  the  Marechal  against  us  we  cannot  afford  to 
neglect  any  means,  fair  or  foul,  by  which  his  Royal 
Highness  can  defeat  the  enemy." 

"Then  you  wish  me  to  assist  '  No.  101'  in  betraying 


4  No.  101 

the  French  plans  to  our  army  under  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland?" 

"Not  quite,"  the  other  replied;  "we  cannot  spare 
you  as  yet.  But  you  have  had  dealings  with  this 
mysterious  cipher,  and  we  ask  you  to  place  all  your 
experience  at  the  disposal  of  Captain  Statham." 

"  I  agree  most  willingly,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

"  This  curious  '  No.  101,'  "  continued  the  secretary 
slowly,  "  you  do  not  know  personally,  I  believe  ?  " 

The  other  was  looking  at  him  carefully  but  with  a 
puzzled  air. 

"  I  ask  because — because  I  am  deeply  curious." 

"  I  am  as  curious  as  yourself,  sir.  '  No.  101 '  is  to 
me  simply  a  cipher  number, — nothing  more,  nothing 
less." 

"  I  feared  so,"  said  the  secretary.  "  But  is  it  not  in- 
credible? The  information  sent  always  proves  to  be 
accurate,  but  there  is  never  a  trace  of  how,  why,  or  by 
whom  it  is  obtained." 

1 '  That  is  so.  Secrecy  is  the  condition  on  which 
alone  we  get  it.  We  pay  handsomely — we  obtain  the 
truth — and  we  are  left  in  the  dark." 

' '  Shall  we  ever  discover  the  secret,  think  you  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  sure  not."     The  tone  was  conviction  itself. 

At  this  moment  Captain  Statham  was  ushered  in,  a 
typical  English  gentleman  and  officer,  ruddy  of  coun- 
tenance, blue-eyed,  frankness  and  courage  in  every  line 
of  his  handsome  face  and  of  his  athletic  figure. 

"Captain  Statham  —  Mr.    George   Onslow  of   the 


No,  101  5 

Secret  Service — "  the  secretary  began  promptly,  add- 
ing with  a  laugh  as  the  two  shook  hands  :  "Ah,  I  see 
you  have  met  before.  I  am  not  surprised.  Mr.  On- 
slow  knows  everybody  and  everything  worth  know- 
ing." He  gathered  up  a  bundle  of  papers.  "  That  is 
the  communication  from  '  No.  101  '  and  the  covering 
letter.  And  now,  gentlemen,  I  will  leave  you  to  your 
business."  He  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

Onslow  took  the  chair  he  had  vacated  and  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  Captain  Statham  and  he  chatted 
earnestly  on  the  position  of  affairs  in  the  Ix>w  Coun- 
tries, and  the  war  then  raging  from  the  Mediterranean 
to  the  North  Sea,  on  the  vast  efforts  being  made  by 
the  French  for  a  great  campaign  in  the  coming  spring, 
the  military  genius  of  the  famous  Marechal  de  Saxe, 
the  Austrian  and  Dutch  allies  of  Great  Britain,  and 
the  new  English  royal  commander-in-chief  who  was 
shortly  to  leave  to  take  over  the  work  of  saving 
Flanders  from  the  arms  of  Louis  XV.  Onslow  then 
briefly  explained  what  the  Secret  Service  agents  of  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland  were  to  expect  and  why. 

"  Communications,"  he  wound  up,  "  from  this  mys- 
terious spy  and  traitor,  '  No.  101, '  invariably  come  like 
bolts  from  the  blue.  They  are,  of  course,  always  in 
cipher  and  they  will  reach  you  by  the  most  innocent 
hands — a  peasant,  a  lackey,  a  tavern  wench — some- 
times you  will  simply  find  them,  say,  under  your  pillow, 
or  in  your  boots.  No  one  can  tell  how  they  get  there. 
But  never  neglect  them,  however  strange  or  unusual 


6  No.  101 

their  contents  may  be,  for  they  are  never  wrong  — 
never!  The  genuine  ones  you  will  recognise  by  this 
mark—"  he  took  up  the  ciphered  paper  and  put  his 
fingers  on  a  sign  —  "two  crossed  daggers  and  the 
figures  101  written  in  blood — you  see — so  " : 


Captain  Statham  stared  at  the  sign,  entranced. 

"  A  soldier,"  Onslow  remarked  with  his  slow  smile, 
"can  always  distinguish  blood  from  red  ink — is  it  not 
so?"  Statham  nodded.  "Remember,  then,  those 
crossed  daggers  with  the  figures  in  blood  are  the  only 
genuine  mark.  All  others  are  forgeries — reject  them 
unhesitatingly.  Let  me  show  it  you  again."  He  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket-book  a  paper  with  the  design  in 
the  corner,  which,  when  compared  with  the  one  on  the 
table,  corresponded  exactly. 

"  I  warn  you,"  Onslow  added,  "  because  the  exist- 
ence of  this  '  No.  101'  is  becoming  known  to  the  French 
— they  suspect  treachery — their  Secret  Service  is  clever 
and  they  may  attempt  to  deceive  you.  As  they  do  not 
know  the  countersign,  though  they  may  have  guessed 
at  the  treachery  of  '  No.  101 '  they  cannot  really  hood- 
wink you.  Cipher  papers  which  come  in  the  name  of 
'  101 '  without  that  remarkable  signature  are  simply  a 
nom  de  guerre,  of  politics,  of  love,  of  anything  you  like, 
but  they  are  either  a  forgery  or  a  trap;  so  put  them  in 
the  fire." 

Statham    sat    pondering,   his  eyes  riveted  on  the 


No.  101  7 

crossed  daggers.  "You,  sir,"  he  began,  "have  had 
dealings  with  this  mysterious  person.  Is  it  a  man  or 
a  woman  ? ' ' 

"  Ah!  "  Onslow  laughed  gently.  "  Every  one  asks 
that,  every  man  at  least.  I  cannot  answer;  no  one, 
indeed,  can.  My  opinion  ?  Well,  I  change  it  every 
month.  But  these  are  the  facts :  It  is  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  the  traitor  insists  on  high,  very  high  pay; 
absolutely  certain  that  he  or  she  has  access  to  the  very 
best  society  in  Paris  and  at  the  Court,  and  is  at  home  in 
the  most  confidential  circles  of  the  King  and  his  min- 
isters. We  have  even  had  documents  from  the  private 
cabinet  of  Louis  XV.  Furthermore,  the  traitor  can 
convey  the  information  in  such  a  way  as  to  baffle  de- 
tection. If  it  is  a  woman  she  is  a  very  remarkable 
one;  if  it  be  a  man  he  is  one  who  controls  important 
women.  Perhaps  it  is  both.  Such  knowledge,  so 
peculiar,  so  accurate,  so  extensive,  such  skill  and  such 
ingenuity  scarcely  seem  to  be  within  the  powers  of  any 
individual  man  or  woman." 

"  Every  word  you  say  sharpens  my  surprise  and  my 
curiosity." 

"  Yes,  and  every  transaction  you  will  have  with  the 
cipher  will  sharpen  it  more  and  more.  I  have  been 
fifteen  years  in  the  Secret  Service,  but  this  business  is 
to-day  as  much  a  puzzle  as  it  ever  was,  for  '  No.  101 ' 
has  taught  me  a  very  important  secret,  one  unknown 
even  to  the  French  King's  ministers,  which,  so  jeal- 
ously guarded  as  it  is,  may  never  be  discovered  in  the 


8  No.  101 

King's  lifetime  or  at  all.  Can  you  really  believe  that 
Louis,  while  professing  to  act  through  his  ministers, 
has  stealthily  built  up  a  little  secret  service  of  his  own 
whose  work  is  to  spy  on  those  ministers,  on  his  am- 
bassadors, generals,  and  their  agents,  to  receive  pri- 
vately instructions  wholly  different  from  what  the  King 
has  officially  sanctioned,  and  frequently  directly  to 
thwart,  check,  annul,  and  defeat  by  intrigue  and 
diplomacy  the  official  policy  of  their  sovereign  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"It  is  a  fact,"  Onslow  said,  emphatically.  "  But 
the  King,  '  No.  101,'  you  and  I  and  one  or  two  others 
alone  know  it.  Let  me  give  you  a  proof.  To-day 
officially  Louis  through  his  ministers  has  disavowed 
the  Jacobites.  The  ministers  believe  their  master  is 
sincere;  many  of  them  regret  it,  but  their  instructions 
are  explicit.  In  truth,  through  those  private  agents  I 
spoke  of,  the  King  is  encouraging  the  Jacobites  in  every 
way  and  is  actually  thwarting  the  steps  and  the  policy 
which  he  has  officially  and  publicly  commanded." 

"  And  the  ministers  are  ignorant  of  this?  " 

"  Absolutely.  But  mark  you,  unless  the  King  is 
very  careful,  some  day  there  will  come  an  awkward 
crisis.  His  Majesty  will  be  threatened  with  the  dis- 
closure of  this  secret  policy  which  has  his  royal  au- 
thority, but  which  gives  the  He  to  his  public  policy, 
equally  authentic.  And  unless  he  can  suppress  the 
first  he  must  be  shown  to  be  doubly  a  royal  liar — not 
to  dwell  on  the  consequences  to  France." 


No.  101  9 

"  What  a  curious  king!  "  Statham  ejaculated. 

"Curious!"  Onslow  laughed  softly;  "more  than 
curious,  because  no  one  knows  the  real  Louis.  The 
world  says  he  is  an  ignorant,  superstitious,  indolent, 
extravagant,  heartless  dullard  in  a  crown  who  has  only 
two  passions — hunting  and  women.  It  is  true;  he  is 
the  prince  of  hunters  and  the  emperor  of  rakes.  But 
he  is  also  a  worker,  cunning,  impenetrable,  obstinate, 
remorseless." 

"  But  why  does  he  play  such  a  dangerous  game? " 

"  God  knows.  The  real  Louis  no  man  has  dis- 
covered, or  woman  either;  he  is  known  only  to  the 
Almighty  or  the  devil.  But  you  observe  what  chances 
this  double  life  gives  to  our  friend  '  No.  101.'  " 

Statham  began  to  pace  up  and  down.  ' '  What  are 
the  traitor's  motives?  "  he  demanded,  abruptly. 

"Ah,  there  you  beat  me."  Onslow  rose  and  con- 
fronted him.  "  My  dear  sir,  a  traitor's  motives  may  be 
gold,  or  madness,  ambition,  love,  jealousy,  revenge, 
singly  or  together,  but  above  all  love  and  revenge." 

Statham  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  I  would 
give  my  commission,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  know  the 
meaning  of  this  mystery." 

A  sympathetic  gleam  lingered  in  Onslow's  eyes  as 
he  calmly  scrutinised  the  young  officer.  "  Ah,"  he 
said,  almost  pityingly,  "  you  begin  to  feel  the  spell  of 
this  mystery  wrapped  in  a  number,  the  spell  of '  No. 
ioi,'  the  fatal  spell." 

' '  Fatal  ? ' '     Statham  took  him  up  sharply. 


io  No.  101 

"  Yes.  I  must  warn  you.  Every  single  person  who, 
in  his  dealings  with  this  cipher,  has  got  near  to  the 
heart  of  the  truth  has  so  far  met  with  a  violent  end. 
It  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  is  a  fact.  And  the  explanation 
is  easy.  Those  who  might  betray  the  truth  are  re- 
moved by  accident  or  design,  some  by  this  method, 
some  by  that.  They  pass  into  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
perhaps  just  when  they  could  have  revealed  what  they 
had  discovered."  He  paused,  for  Statham  was  visibly 
impressed.  "  Really  there  is  no  danger,"  he  added; 
"  but  I  say  as  earnestly  as  I  can,  because  you  are 
young,  and  life  is  sweet  for  the  young,  for  God's  sake 
stifle  your  curiosity,  resist  the  spell — that  fatal  spell. 
Take  the  information  as  it  comes,  and  ask  no  questions, 
push  no  inquiries,  however  tempting  and  easy  the 
path  to  success  seems,  or,  as  sure  as  I  stand  here,  His 
Majesty  King  George  the  Second  will  lose  a  promising 
and  gallant  officer." 

Statham  walked  away  and  resumed  his  seat.  "And 
you,  Mr.  Ouslow  ?  "  he  demanded,  looking  up  with  the 
profoundest  interest. 

"  Do  I  practise  what  I  preach  ?  Well,  I  am  a  spy  by 
profession:  to  some  men  such  a  life  is  everything — it  is, 
at  least,  to  me.  But  I  do  not  conceal  from  myself  that 
if  my  curiosity  overpowers  me  my  hour  for  silence,  too, 
will  come — the  silence  of  the  unknown  grave  in  an  un- 
known land." 

"  Then  is  no  one  ever  to  know  ?  "  Statham  muttered 
with  childish  petulance. 


No,  101  ii 

"  Probably  not.  A  hundred  years  hence  the  secret 
that  baffles  you  and  me  will  baffle  our  successors." 

Statham's  heels  tapped  on  the  floor.  "Perhaps," 
he  pronounced,  slowly,  "  perhaps  the  truth  is  well 
worth  the  price  that  is  paid  for  it  —  death  and  the 
silence  of  the  grave." 

Onslow  stared  at  him.  His  eyes  gleamed  curiously 
as  if  they  were  fixed  on  visions  known  only  to  the 
inner  mind.  "  Perhaps,"  he  repeated  gravely.  "  But 
really,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  lightness,  "  there  is 
no  one  to  persuade  us  it  is  so.  Come,  Captain  Statham, 
you  have  not  forgotten  supper,  I  hope,  and  that  I  pro- 
pose to  introduce  you  to-night  to  the  most  seductive 
enchantress  in  London  ? ' ' 

"  No,  indeed.  All  day  I  have  been  hungering  for 
that  supper.  In  the  Low  Countries  we  do  not  get  sup- 
pers presided  over  by  ladies  such  as  you  have  described 
to  me." 

4 '  In  the  French  army  they  have  both  the  ladies  and 
the  suppers,"  Onslow  replied,  laughing.  "And,  my 
dear  Captain,  to  the  victors  of  the  spring  will  fall  the 
spoils.  To-night  shall  be  a  foretaste,  and  if  my  en- 
chantress does  not  make  you  forget '  No.  101,'  I  despair 
of  the  gallantry  of  British  officers." 

He  locked  up  the  papers,  chatting  all  the  time,  and 
then  the  two  gentlemen  went  out  together. 


CHAPTER  II 

ONE-FOURTH  OF  A  SECRET  AND  THREE-FOURTHS  OF  A 
MYSTERY 

FOR  some  minutes  the  pair  walked  in  silence,  as  if 
each  was  still  brooding  on  the  mysterious  cipher  whose 
treachery  to  France  had  brought  them  together.  But 
presently  Statham  touched  Onslow  on  the  arm.  "  Tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  something  of  this  enchantress.  I  am 
equally  curious  about  her." 

"  And  I  know  very  little,"  Onslow  replied.  "  Her 
mother,  if  you  believe  scandal,  was  a  famous  Paris 
flower  girl,  who  was  mistress  in  turn  to  half  the  young 
rakes  of  the  noblesse;  her  father  is  supposed  to  have 
been  an  English  gentleman.  Your  eyes  will  tell  you 
she  is  gifted  with  a  singular  beauty,  which  is  her  only 
dowry.  Gossip  says  that  she  makes  that  dowry  go  a 
long  way,  for  she  has  two  passions,  flowers  and  jewels. ' ' 

"  And  she  resides  in  London?  " 

"  She  resides  nowhere,"  Onslow  answered  with  his 
slow  smile;  "  she  is  here  to-day  and  away  to-morrow. 
I  have  met  her  in  Paris,  in  Brussels,  Vienna,  Rome. 
She  talks  French  as  easily  as  she  talks  English,  and 

za 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  13 

wherever  she  is  her  apartments  are  always  haunted  by 
the  men  of  pleasure,  and  by  the  grand  monde.  Women 
you  never  meet  there,  for  she  is  not  a  favourite  with 
her  own  sex,  which  is  not  surprising." 

"  Pardon,"  Statham  asked,  "  but  is  she — is  she,  too, 
in  the  Secret  Service  ?  " 

"  God  bless  my  soul!  No;  we  don't  employ  ladies 
with  a  passion  for  jewels.  It  would  expose  them  and 
us  to  too  many  temptations.  And,  besides,  politics 
are  the  one  thing  this  goddess  abhors.  Eating,  drink- 
ing, the  pleasures  of  the  body,  poetry,  philosophy,  ro- 
mance, the  arts,  and  the  pleasures  of  the  mind  she 
adores;  luxury  and  jewels  she  covets,  but  politics,  no! 
They  are  a  forbidden  topic.  For  me  her  friendship  is 
convenient,  for  the  politicians  are  always  in  her  com- 
pany. When  will  statesmen  learn,"  he  added,  "that 
making  love  to  a  lady  such  as  she  is  is  more  powerful 
in  unlocking  the  heart  and  unsealing  the  lips  than 
wine?"  "  And  her  name ?" 

"  She  has  not  got  one.  '  Princess'  we  call  her  and 
she  deserves  it,  for  she  is  fit  to  adorn  the  Palace  of 
Versailles." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Statham,  "  she  will  some  day." 
"  Not  a  doubt  of  it — if  Louis  will  only  pay  enough." 
They  had  reached  the  house.     Statham  noticed  that 
Onslow  neither  gave  his  own  nor  asked  for  his  hostess's 
name.     He  showed  the  footman  a  card,  which  was  re- 
turned, and  immediately  they  were  ushered  into  two 
handsome  apartments  with  doors  leading  the  one  into 


14  No.  101 

the  other,  and  in  the  inner  of  the  two  they  found  some 
half-dozen  gentlemen  talking.  Three  of  them  wore 
stars  and  ribbons,  but  all  unmistakably  belonged  to 
that  grand  monde  of  which  Onslow  had  spoken.  From 
behind  the  group  the  lady  quietly  walked  forward  and 
curtsied  deferentially  to  Statham,  who  felt  her  eyes 
resting  on  his  with  no  small  interest  as  his  companion 
kissed  her  hand.  The  secret  agent  had  not  exagger- 
ated. This  woman  was  indeed  strikingly  impressive. 
About  the  middle  height,  with  a  slight  but  exquisitely 
shaped  figure,  at  first  sight  she  seemed  to  flash  on  you 
a  vision  composed  of  dark  masses  of  black  hair,  large 
and  liquid  blue  eyes,  and  a  dazzling  skin,  cream  tinted. 
Dressed  in  a  flowing  robe  of  dark  red,  she  wore  in  her 
hair  blood-red  roses,  while  blood-red  roses  twined  along 
her  corsage,  which  was  cut,  not  without  justification, 
daringly  open.  Her  bare  arms,  her  theatrical  manner, 
and  the  profusion  of  jewels  which  glittered  in  the 
candle-light  suggested  a  curious  vulgarity,  which  was 
emphasised  by  her  speech,  for  her  English,  spoken 
with  the  ease  of  a  native,  betrayed  in  its  accent  rather 
than  its  words  evidence  of  low  birth.  Yet  all  this  was 
forgotten  in  the  mysterious  charm  which  clung  about 
her  like  a  subtle  and  intoxicating  perfume,  and  as 
Statham  in  turn  kissed  her  jewelled  hand,  a  fleeting 
something  in  her  eyes,  at  once  pathetic  and  vindictive, 
shot  with  a  thrill  through  him. 

"  An  English  officer  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Onslow," 
she  remarked,  ' '  is  always  amongst  my  most  welcome. 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  15 

guests,"  and  then  she  turned  to  the  elderly  fop  in  the 
star  and  ribbon  and  resumed  her  conversation. 

Statham  studied  her  carefully.  Superb  health,  a 
superb  body,  and  a  reckless  disregard  of  convention 
she  certainly  had,  but  the  more  he  observed  her  the 
more  certain  he  felt  that  that  wonderful  skin  as  well  as 
those  lustrous  blue  eyes  and  alluring  eyebrows  owed 
more  to  art  than  to  nature.  In  fact  every  pose  of  her 
head,  every  line  in  her  figure,  the  scandalous  freedom 
of  her  attire  were  obviously  intended  to  puzzle  as  much 
as  to  attract — and  they  succeeded.  She  was  the  incar- 
nation of  a  fascination  and  of  a  puzzle. 

Two  more  gentlemen  had  arrived,  and  Statham  was 
an  interested  spectator  of  what  followed. 

"  Princess,"  the  new-comer  said,  "  I  present  to  you 
my  very  good  friend  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac." 

The  lady  turned  sharply.  Was  it  the  visitor's  name 
or  face  which  for  the  moment  disturbed  her  equanimity? 
— yet  apparently  neither  the  Vicomte  nor  she  had  met 
before. 

"  Welcome,  Vicomte,"  she  said,  so  swiftly  recover- 
ing herself  that  Statham  alone  noticed  her  surprise,  if 
it  was  surprise.  "  And  may  I  ask  how  a  Capitaine- 
lyieutenant  of  the  Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde  de  la 
Maison  du  Roi  happens  to  be  in  England  when  his 
country  is  at  war  ?  " 

"  You  know  me,  Madame!  "  the  Vicomte  stammered, 
looking  at  her  in  a  confusion  he  could  not  conceal. 

The  lady  laughed.     "  Every  one  who  has  been  in 


16  No.  101 

Paris,"  she  retorted,  "  knows  the  Chevau-legers  de  la 
Garde,  and  the  most  famous  of  their  officers  is  Mon- 
sieur the  Vicomte  de  Nerac,  famous,  I  would  have  these 
gentlemen  be  aware,  for  his  swordsmanship,  for  his 
gallantries — and  for  his  military  exploits  which  won 
him  the  Croix  de  St.  I,ouis." 

"You  do  me  too  much  honour,  Madame,"  the 
Vicomte  replied. 

"As  a  woman  I  fear  you,  as  a  lover  of  gallant  deeds 
and  as  a  fencer  myself  I  adore  you,  as  do  all  the  ladies 
whether  at  Versailles  or  in  I^es  Halles,"  she  laughed 
again.  "But  you  have  not  answered  my  question. 
Why  are  you  in  England,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte?  " 

' '  Nine  months  ago  I  had  the  misfortune  to  be  taken 
prisoner,  Madame,  but  in  three  weeks  I  return  to  my 
duty  as  a  soldier  and  a  noble  of  France."  He  bowed 
to  the  company  with  that  incomparable  air  of  self-con- 
fidence tempered  by  the  dulcet  courtesy  which  was  the 
pride  of  Versailles  and  the  despair  of  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

"And  here,"  the  lady  answered,  "  is  another  gentle- 
man who  also  shortly  returns  to  his  duty.  Captain 
Statham  of  the  First  Foot  Guards,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
de  Nerac  of  the  Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde.  Perhaps 
before  long  you  will  meet  again,  and  this  time  not  in  a 
woman's  salon." 

"When  Captain  Statham  is  taken  prisoner,"  the 
Vicomte  remarked,  smiling,  "  I  can  assure  him  Paris 
is  not  less  pleasant  than  L,ondon,  but  till  then  he  and  I 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  1 7 

must  agree  to  cross  swords  in  a  friendly  manner  for  the 
favours  of  yourself,  Princess." 

"  And  you  think  you  will  win,  Vicomte  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible  we  can  lose,"  the  Vicomte  replied. 
"  Not  even  the  gallantry  of  the  First  Foot  Guards  can 
save  the  allies  from  the  genius  of  Monseigneur  the 
Marechal  de  Saxe." 

' '  We  will  see, ' '  Statham  responded  gruffly. 

"  Without  a  doubt,  sir."     The  Vicomte  bowed. 

Statham  stared  at  him  stolidly.  He  could  hardly 
have  guessed  that  this  exquisitely  dressed  gentleman 
with  the  slight  figure  and  the  innocently  grand  air  was 
really  a  soldier,  and  above  all  an  officer  in  perhaps  the 
most  famous  cavalry  regiment  of  all  Europe,  every 
trooper  in  which,  like  the  Vicomte  himself,  was  a  noble 
of  at  least  a  hundred  years'  standing,  but  he  was  re- 
luctantly compelled  to  confess  that  the  stranger  was 
undeniably  handsome,  and  his  manner  spoke  of  an  ease 
and  a  distinction  beyond  criticism.  His  smile,  too,  was 
singularly  seductive  in  its  sweetness  and  strength,  and 
his  brown  eyes  could  glitter  with  marvellous  and  un- 
speakable thoughts.  From  that  minute  he  seemed  to 
imagine  that  his  hostess  belonged  to  him:  he  placed 
himself  next  her  at  supper,  he  absorbed  her  conversa- 
tion, and,  still  more  annoying,  she  willingly  consented. 
Statham  in  high  dudgeon  had  to  listen  to  the  polite 
small  talk  of  his  English  neighbour,  conscious  all  the 
while  that  at  his  elbow  the  Vicomte  was  chattering 
away  to  "  the  princess"  in  the  gayest  French.  And 

2 


i8  No.  101 

after  supper  he  along  with  the  others  was  driven  off  to 
play  cards  while  the  pair  sat  in  the  other  room  alone 
and  babbled  ceaselessly  in  that  infernal  foreign  tongue. 

"The  Vicomte,"  Onslow  said  coolly,  "has  made 
another  conquest. ' ' 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that  he  is  a  fine  swordsman  as  well 
as  a  rake  ? ' ' 

"  Quite  true.  His  victims  amongst  the  ladies  are  as 
numerous  as  his  victims  of  the  sword.  It  is  almost  as 
great  an  honour  for  a  man  to  be  run  through  by  Andre 
de  Nerac  as  it  is  for  a  woman  to  succumb  to  his  woo- 
ing. Do  not  forget  he  is  a  Chevau-leger  de  la  Garde 
and  a  Croix  de  St.  I,ouis." 

Statham  grunted. 

"It  is  not  fair, ' '  Onslow  pursued,  throwing  down 
the  dice  box.  "  You  are  not  enjoying  yourself,"  and 
he  rose  and  went  into  the  other  room.  "Gentlemen," 
he  said,  on  his  return,  ' '  I  have  persuaded  our  princess 
to  add  to  our  pleasure  by  dancing.  In  ten  minutes  she 
will  be  at  your  service. ' ' 

The  cards  were  instantly  abandoned  and  while  they 
waited  the  Vicomte  strolled  in  and  walked  up  to 
Onslow. 

"  That  is  a  strange  lady,"  he  remarked,  "  a  very 
strange  lady.  She  knows  Paris  and  all  my  friends  as  well 
as  I  do;  yet  I  have  never  so  much  as  seen  her  there." 

"Yes,"  Onslow  answered,  looking  him  all  over, 
"  she  is  very  strange." 

"  And  the  English  of  Madame  is,  I  think,  not  the 


One- Fourth  of  a  Secret  19 

English  of  the  quality?"  Onslow  nodded.  "That, 
too,  is  curious,  for  her  French  is  our  French,  the 
French  of  the  noblesse.  She  says  her  father  was  an 
English  gentleman,  and  her  mother  a  Paris  flower  girl, 
which  is  still  more  curious,  for  the  flower  girls  of  Paris 
do  not  talk  as  we  talk  on  the  staircase  Des  Ambassa- 
deurs  at  Versailles,  or  as  my  mother  and  the  women  of 
my  race  talk.  Mon  Dieu!"  he  broke  off  suddenly, 
for  the  princess  had  tripped  into  the  room,  turning  it 
by  the  magic  of  her  saucy  costume  into  a  flower  booth 
in  the  market  of  Paris,  and  without  ado  she  began  to 
sing  a  gay  chansonnette,  waving  gently  to  and  fro  her 
basket  of  flowers: 

"  Quand  on  a  su  toucher 

Le  co2ur  d'une  berg£re 

On  pent  bien  s'assurer 

Du  plaisir  de  lui  faire. 
Et  zon, zon, zon, 

Lisette,  ma  I/isette; 
Et  zon, zon,  zon, 

Lisette,  ma  Lison." 

And  the  dance  into  which  without  a  word  of  warn- 
ing she  broke  was  something  to  stir  the  blood  of  both 
English  and  French  by  its  invincible  mixture  of  co- 
quetry, lithe  grace,  and  audacious  abandon,  its  'swift 
transitions  from  a  mocking  stateliness  and  a  tempting 
reserve  to  its  intoxicating,  almost  devilish  revelation  of 
uncontrolled  passion;  and  all  the  while  that  heartless, 
airy  song  twined  itself  into  every  pirouette,  every  pose, 
and  was  translated  into  the  wickedest  provocation  by 
the  twinkling  flutter  of  her  short  skirt  and  the  flashes 


20  No.  ioi 

of  the  jewelled  buckles  in  her  saucy  shoes.  To  Statham 
as  to  Andre  de  Nerac  the  princess  had  vanished,  and 
all  that  remained  was  a  witch  in  woman's  form,  a  witch 
with  black  hair  crowned  with  crimson  roses  and  a 
cream-tinted  skin  gleaming  white  against  those  roses 
at  her  breast. 

"  To  the  victor,"  she  cried,  picking  a  nosegay  from 
her  basket,  and  kissing  it,  "  to  the  victor  of  the 
spring!"  and  Andre  and  Statham  found  themselves 
hit  in  the  face  by  the  flowers.  The  salon  rang  with 
"  Bravos  "  and  "  Huzzas  "  until  every  one  woke  to  the 
discovery  that  the  dancer  had  disappeared. 

When  she  returned  she  was  once  more  in  her  splen- 
did robes  and  frigidly  cynical  as  before. 

"  I  am  tired,  gentlemen,"  she  said;  "I  must  beg 
you  to  say  good -night."  She  held  out  her  hand  to  the 
Vicomte.  "Au  revoir J '"  she  said,  permitting  her 
eyes  to  study  his  olive-tinted  cheeks  and  the  homage 
of  his  gaze. 

' '  Your  prisoner,  Madame, ' '  he  said,  ' '  your  prisoner 
for  always ! ' ' 

"  Or  I  yours?"  she  flashed  back,  swiftly. 

And  now  she  was  speaking  to  Statham.  ' '  We  shall 
meet  again,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  we  shall  meet  again, 
Captain." 

"  Not  in  Ivondon,  Madame,"  he  answered. 

"  Oh,  no!  But  I  trust  our  meeting  will  be  as 
pleasant  for  you  as  to-night  has  been  for  me." 

"  It  cannot  fail  to  be." 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  21 

"  Ah,  you  never  know.  Women  are  ever  fickle  and 
cruel,"  she  answered,  and  once  again  as  he  kissed  the 
jewelled  fingers  Statham  was  conscious  of  that  pathetic, 
pantherish  light  in  her  great  eyes,  which  made  him  at 
once  joyous,  sad,  and  fearful. 

When  they  had  all  gone  the  woman  stood  gazing  at 
her  bare  shoulders  in  the  long  mirror.  "Ft,  done!" 
she  muttered  with  a  shrug  of  disgust,  and  she  tore  in 
two  one  of  the  cards  with  which  the  gamblers  had  been 
playing,  allowing  the  fragments  to  trickle  carelessly 
down  as  though  the  gust  of  passion  which  had  moved 
her  was  already  spent.  Then  she  drew  the  curtains 
across  the  door  between  the  two  rooms,  and  remained 
staring  into  space.  "Andre  Pierre  Auguste  Marie, 
Vicomte  de  Nerac,"  she  murmured,  "Seigneur  des 
Fleurs  de  L,ys,  Vicomte  de — "  she  smelled  one  of  her 
roses,  the  fingers  of  her  other  hand  tapping  contem- 
platively on  her  breast.  A  faint  sigh  crept  into  the 
stillness  of  the  empty,  glittering  room. 

Then  she  flung  herself  on  the  low  divan,  put  her 
arms  behind  her  head,  and  lay  gazing  in  front  of  her. 
The  door  was  opening  gently,  but  she  did  not  stir.  A 
man  walked  in  noiselessly,  halted  on  the  threshold,  and 
looked  at  her  for  fully  two  minutes.  She  never  moved. 
It  was  George  Onslow.  He  walked  forward  and  stood 
beside  her.  She  let  her  eyes  rest  on  him  with  absolute 
indifference. 

"There  is  your  pass,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  in 
which  emotion  vibrated. 


22  NO.  101 

"  I  thank  you."  She  made  no  effort  to  take  it,  but 
simply  turned  her  head  as  if  to  see  him  the  better. 

"  Is  that  all  my  reward  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  It  was 
not  easy  to  get  that  pass." 

' '  No  ? ' '  She  pulled  a  rose  from  her  breast  and 
sniffed  it.  "I  believe  you.  I  can  only  thank  you 
again." 

He  dropped  the  paper  into  her  lap,  where  she  let  it 
lie. 

"  By  God! "  he  broke  out,  "  I  wish  I  knew  whether 
you  are  more  adorable  as  you  are  now  on  that  sofa,  or 
as  you  were  dancing  in  that  flower  girl's  costume." 

"  Most  men  in  London  prefer  the  short  petticoats," 
she  remarked,  moving  the  diamond  buckle  on  her  shoe 
into  the  light,  "  but  in  Paris  they  have  better  taste,  for 
only  a  real  woman  can  make  herself  adorable  in  this ' ' 
— she  gave  a  little  kick  to  indicate  the  long,  full  robe. 
"  Think  about  it,  mon  ami,  and  let  me  know  to-morrow 
which  you  really  like  the  better." 

"  And  to-night  ?" 

She  stooped  forward  to  adjust  her  slipper.  "  To- 
night," she  repeated,  "  I  must  decide  whether  I  dislike 
you  more  as  the  lover  of  this  afternoon,  the  man  of 
pleasure  of  this  evening,  or  the  spy  of  to-morrow." 

He  put  a  strong  hand  on  her  shoulder.  In  an  in- 
stant she  had  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"  No!  "  she  cried,  imperiously,  "  I  have  had  enough 
for  one  day  of  men  who  would  storm  a  citadel  by  inso- 
lence. Leave  me  ! ' ' 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  23 

"  You  are  expecting  some  one  ?  " 

"And  if  lam?" 

"  Don't  torture  me.     Tell  me  who  it  is." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  have  to  wait  till  dawn  or  longer 
before  you  see  him." 

"  I  will  kill  him,  that  is  all, — kill  him  when  he  leaves 
this  house." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  that,"  was  the  smiling  an- 
swer. "  One  rake  less  in  the  world  is  a  blessing  for 
all  women,  honest  or — "  she  fingered  her  rose  caress- 
ingly. 

"  Is  it  one  of  those  who  were  here  to-night!  "  he  de- 
manded. ' '  Perhaps  that  infernal  libertine  of  a  Vicomte 
de " 

"Pray,  what  have  my  secrets  to  do  with  you?" 
She  faced  him  scornfully. 

"This."  He  came  close  to  her.  "You  flatter 
yourself,  ma  mignonne,  that  you  guard  your  secrets 
very  well.  So  you  do  from  all  men  but  me.  But  I 
take  leave  to  tell  you  that  three-fourths  of  those  secrets 
are  already  mine. ' '  She  sniffed  at  the  rose  in  the  most 
provoking  way.  ' '  Yes,  I  have  discovered  three- fourths, 
and " 

' '  The  one-fourth  that  remains  you  will  never  dis- 
cover until  I  choose. ' ' 

"  Do  not  be  too  sure." 

"And  then ?" 

"You,  ma  mignonne,  you  the  guest  of  many  men, 
will  be  in  my  power,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  do  what 


24  No.  101 

I  wish.  Oh,  I  will  not  be  your  cur,  your  lackey,  then, 
but  you  will ' ' 

She  dropped  him  a  curtsey,  and  walked  away  to  an 
escritoire,  from  a  drawer  in  which  she  took  out  a  piece 
of  paper. 

"  The  one- fourth  that  remains,"  she  said,  holding  it 
up,  and  offering  it  to  him,  "  I  give  it  to  you,  my  cur 
and  lackey." 

She  watched  him  take  it,  unfold  it,  read  it.  His 
hand  shook,  the  paper  dropped  from  his  fingers,  and 
while  he  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  forehead  she 
put  the  fragment  in  the  fire. 

They  faced  each  other  in  dead  silehce.  She  was 
perfectly  calm,  but  his  mouth  twitched  and  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  an  unhallowed  fire  and  with  fear. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  he  asked  at  last,  "  that  you  con- 
fess such  a  thing  to  me — me  ? ' ' 

"Better  to  you,"  she  retorted,  "than  to  that  in- 
fernal libertine,  the  Vicomte  de  N6rac,  or  that  infernal 
simpleton,  Captain  Statham,  eh?  No,  mon  ami,  my 
reason  is  this:  Now,  you,  George  Onslow,  who  pro- 
fess to  love  me,  who  would  make  me  your  slave,  are  in 
my  power,  and  the  proof  is  that  I  order  you  to  leave 
this  room  at  once." 

"  I  shall  return." 

"  Then  you  certainly  will  be  mad." 

"Ah!"  He  sprang  forward.  "Can  you  not  be- 
lieve that  I  love  you  more  than  ever?  I " 

"  Pshaw!  " 


One-Fourth  of  a  Secret  25 

The  door  had  slammed.     Onslow  was  alone. 

For  a  minute  he  stood,  clenching  his  hands,  frus- 
trated passion  glowing  in  his  eyes.  "Ah!"  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  cry  of  pent-up  anguish,  and  then  the  door 
slammed  again  as  he  strode  out. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  FAIR  HUNTRESS  AND  THE  GIRI,  WITH  THE  SPOTTED 

COW 

Two  months  later  Andre,  Vicomte  de  N£rac,  was 
riding  in  the  woods  around  Versailles,  and,  poverty- 
stricken,  debt-loaded  noble  as  he  might  be,  his  heart 
was  gay,  for  was  he  not  a  Capitaine-Lieutenant  in  the 
Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde,  and  a  Croix  de  St.  Louis; 
was  he  not  presently  about  to  fight  again  for  honour 
and  France,  and  was  he  not  once  more  a  free  man  and 
in  his  native  land  with  Paris  at  his  back  ?  The  leafless 
trees  were  just  beginning  to  bud,  though  winter  was 
still  here,  but  the  breath  of  spring  was  in  the  air  and 
the  gladness  of  summer  shone  in  the  March  sun.  Yes, 
the  world  bid  fair  to  be  kind  and  good,  and  Andre's 
heart  beat  responsive  to  its  call.  Love  and  honour 
and  France  were  his,  and  what  more  could  a  noble 
wish? 

He  let  the  reins  drop  and  breathed  with  contentment 
the  bracing  breeze,  while  his  eyes  roamed  to  and  fro. 
Clearly  he  was  waiting  for  some  one  who,  his  anxious 
gaze  up  the  road  showed,  might  be  expected  to  come 

26 


A  Fair  Huntress  27 

from  that  quarter — the  quarter  of  the  Palace  of  Ver- 
sailles. 

Along  the  path  walked  a  peasant  girl  driving  a 
splendid  spotted  cow.  The  bell  at  its  fat  throat  tinkled 
merrily,  the  sun  gleamed  on  its  glossy  spotted  hide. 
The  girl  dropped  a  curtsey  to  the  noble  gentleman  sit- 
ting there  on  his  fine  horse  and  himself  so  handsome  a 
cavalier,  and  Andre  nodded  a  smiling  reply.  She  was 
not  pretty,  this  peasant  wench,  with  her  shock  of  tum- 
bled flaxen  hair  tossed  over  her  smutty  face,  and  her 
bodice  and  short  skirt  were  soiled  and  tattered,  but 
Andre,  to  whom  all  young  women  were  interesting,  in 
the  sheer  gaiety  of  his  heart  tossed  her  a  coin  and 
smiled  again  his  captivating  smile. 

"  May  Monseigneur  le  Due  be  happy  in  his  love!  " 
the  wench  said,  as  she  bit  the  coin  before  she  placed 
it  in  her  bodice,  and  Andre  remarked  with  approval 
the  whiteness  of  her  teeth.  If  her  face  was  not  pretty 
her  body  was  both  trim  and  sturdy,  and  she  walked 
with  the  easy  swing  of  perfect  health.  He  could  have 
kissed  her  smutty  face  then  just  because  the  world  was 
so  fair  and  he  was  free. 

"You  have  a  magnificent  cow,  my  dear,"  he  re- 
marked. 

' '  But  certainly, ' '  she  answered  and  her  white  teeth 
sparkled  through  her  happy  laugh,  "  better  a  fat  cow 
for  a  wench  than  a  lean  husband.  She  carries  me,  does 
my  spotted  cow,  which  no  husband  would  do,"  and  she 
scrambled  on  to  the  glossy  back  and  laughed  again, 


28  No.  101 

throwing  back  her  shock  of  flaxen  hair.  Andre"  ob- 
served, heedful  by  long  experience  of  such  trifles,  that 
not  even  her  clumsy  sabots  could  spoil  the  dainty  neat- 
ness of  her  feet. 

"  And  what  may  your  name  be?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yvonne,  Monsieur  le  Due  ;  they  call  me  Yvonne  of 
the  Spotted  Cow,  and  some,"  she  dimpled  into  a 
chuckle,  "  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless  Ankles.  I  am  not 
pretty,  mot,  but  that  matters  not.  My  fat  cow  or  my 
ankles  will  get  me  a  husband  some  day,  and  till  then, 
like  Monseigneur,  I  keep  a  gay  heart." 

Whereupon  she  drove  her  heels  into  the  cow's  flanks 
and  the  two  slowly  passed  out  of  sight,  though  the 
merry  tinkling  of  the  bell  continued  to  jingle  through 
the  leafless  trees  long  after  she  had  disappeared. 

Andre  waited  patiently.  An  hour  went  by,  still  he 
waited.  Twice  he  trotted  up  the  road  and  peered  this 
way  and  that,  but  there  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen,  and 
with  a  muttered  exclamation  of  disgust  he  was  about 
to  spur  away  when  the  notes  of  a  hunting  horn  caused 
him  to  gather  up  the  reins  sharply.  And  now  eager 
expectation  was  written  on  every  line  of  his  face. 

A  young  lady  in  a  beautiful  riding  dress  of  hunting 
green,  and  attended  by  a  single  lackey  on  horseback, 
came  galloping  down  the  forest  track.  At  sight  of 
him  by  the  roadside  she  pulled  up  her  horse  in  great 
astonishment. 

"Andre — you — you  are  back?"  she  said,  and  the 
colour  flooded  into  her  cheeks. 


A  Fair  Huntress  29 

"  Thank  God,  yes." 

"And  well?" 

"  Perfectly.  My  wounds  are  healed.  I  am  a  pris- 
oner no  longer,  and  in  a  fortnight  I  return  to  the  I/DW 
Countries  to  seek  revenge  from  my  enemies  and  yours, 
Denise,  the  English." 

Her  grey  eyes  flashed,  then  dropped  modestly. 
"  You  will  find  revenge,  little  doubt,"  she  said,  "  the 
Maison  du  Roi  are  soldiers  worthy  of  the  noblesse  and 
of  France.  But  do  you  not  come  to  Versailles 
first?" 

"  No.  My  company  is  not  on  duty  this  month  at 
the  Palace  and  in  April  we  shall  all  be  with  His  Majesty 
in  Flanders." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  forgot." 

She  began  to  stroke  her  horse's  neck  in  some  embar- 
rassment. Andre  gazed  at  her  with  the  hungry  eyes 
of  a  starved  lover,  and  indeed  this  girl  was  worthy  of  a 
soldier's  homage.  Neither  a  brunette  nor  a  blonde,  for 
her  eyes  were  grey  and  their  lashes  almost  black, 
though  her  hair  was  fair  and  the  tint  of  her  cheeks  in 
the  morning  air  delicate  as  the  tint  of  a  tender  rose. 
Beautiful,  yes!  but  something  much  more  than  beauti- 
ful. A  great  noble  this  lady  surely,  one  who  saw  in 
kings  and  queens  no  more  than  an  equal,  and  in  palaces 
the  only  fit  home  of  beauty  nobly  born,  one  to  whom 
centuries  of  command  had  bequeathed  a  tone  and 
quality  which  men  and  women  can  inherit  but  not 
acquire. 


30  No.  101 

"And  when  I  return,"  Andre  said  at  last,  "shall 
I  find  at  Versailles  what  I  desire  more  than  re- 
venge ? ' ' 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  asked  innocently. 

"Can  you  not  guess?  Have  you  forgotten?  Ah, 
Denise,  twelve  months  ago  you  promised " 

"No,  no,"  she  broke  in,  eagerly,  "I  said  I  would 
reflect." 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  a  poor  Vicomte  and 
a  soldier  of  France  can  desire — your  heart,  Denise; 
your  love,  Denise;  the  heart  and  the  love  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  loyal  woman  in  France,  the  heart  of 
the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour.  And  Andre  de  Nerac 
loves  the  Marquise  as  he  loves  France.  Can  he  say 
more  ? ' ' 

"  I  think  not,"  she  said,  averting  her  eyes,  "and  the 
Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  thanks  the  Vicomte  de  Ne"rac 
for  his  words  and  his  homage — to  France." 

"  I  do  not  desire  thanks — I " 

"  Then  go  and  do  your  duty  as  a  noble  and  a  soldier, 
and  when  peace  and  victory  are  ours  perhaps  I " 

"  I  cannot  wait  till  then.  Have  pity,  Denise,  have 
pity  on  the  man  who  was  your  playmate,  who  loved 
you  then  and  who  loves  you  now.  Remember,  re- 
member, I  beg  you,  that  over  there  in  England  the 
one  thought  that  consoled  my  prisoner's  lot  was  the 
hope  that  when  I  returned  to  you — you  would ' ' 

' '  But,  Andre,  I  cannot  give  you  an  answer,  here, 
now " 


A  Fair  Huntress  31 

"  Give  it  me  then  before  I  return  to  the  war,  that  I 
may  know  whether  I  am  to  live  in  hope,  or  to  die  sword 
in  hand  and  in  despair." 

"  There  is  more  than  one  marquise  in  the  world," 
she  said,  quietly. 

"Not  for  me." 

Denise  looked  at  him,  and  he  dropped  his  eyes,  for 
he  understood  the  calm  reproach. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  with  decision.  "  I  go  to  my 
home  to-morrow.  You  shall  have  my  answer  in  four 
days  at  the  Chateau  de  Beau  Sejour  if  you  care  enough 
to  come  and  hear  it." 

1 '  If—' '  he  broke  off.  "Ah,  Denise— !  "  he  stretched 
out  a  passionate  hand. 

"Hush!    There  is  some  one  coming." 

A  young  man  was  galloping  towards  them,  a  boy  he 
seemed,  saucy,  insolent,  handsome,  fair,  with  great 
blue  eyes  sparkling  with  the  gayest,  wickedest,  most 
careless  joy  of  living.  Removing  his  plumed  hat  with 
an  airy  sweep  he  kissed  the  lady's  fingers,  bowed  low  in 
the  saddle,  and  looked  into  her  face: 

"  Marquise,"  were  his  words,  "  the  company  and  His 
Majesty  await  you."  His  dare-devil  eyes  roved  on  to 
Andre's  face  with  a  studied  insouciance,  but  Andr6 
gave  him  back  the  look,  and  more. 

Denise  made  haste  to  present  the  young  man. 
"  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,  secretary  of  the 
King's  Cabinet,"  she  said  and  her  eyes  pleaded  for 
politeness  from  both. 


32  No.  101 

' '  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  goes  to  the  war  ?  ' '  the  Cheva- 
lier asked,  carelessly. 

"  As  all  true  subjects  of  His  Majesty  ought  to  do," 
Andre  retorted. 

"Except,"  said  the  Chevalier,  bowing  to  Denise, 
"  those  who  find  more  pleasant  pastime  here  at  home." 

"It  is  curious,"  Andre  remarked,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard,  ' '  that  I  who  have  known  Versailles  for  ten 
years  learn  to-day  for  the  first  time  of  St.  Amant. 
Where  is  St.  Amant?" 

"Ah,"  answered  the  Chevalier,  laughing,  "in  this 
life,  Vicomte,  we  are  always  learning  what  is  disagree- 
able. The  dull  philosophers  of  whom  we  hear  so  much 
in  Paris  at  present  say  soldiers  learn  more  than  others 
— or  ought  to  ?  Perhaps  you  differ  from  them  ?  " 

"Mafoif  no.  For  when  it  is  necessary  the  soldiers 
teach  what  they  have  learned  to  the  young  men  and 
the  schoolboys,  which  is  very  good  for  the  schoolboys. 
But  perhaps  you,  sir,  do  not  like  lessons?" 

"  No,  oh,  no!  my  only  regret  at  present  is  that  I 
cannot  stay  now  and  have  one  at  once.  But  Made- 
moiselle la  Marquise  will  take  your  place  and  I  can 
learn,  as  we  ride  together,  something  that  she  alone 
can  teach.  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  I  have  the  honour  to 
wish  you  good-morning  and  good-bye."  He  raised 
his  plumed  hat  and  galloped  away  with  Denise. 

The  flush  in  Andrews  cheek  did  not  die  out  for  some 
minutes.  ' '  Upstart !  Puppy !  "  he  continued  to  mutter 
while  his  eyes  glittered  and  his  fingers  twitched  in- 


A  Fair  Huntress  33 

voluntarily  on  the  handle  of  his  sword.  But  his  wrath 
and  his  scowls  were  suddenly  dispelled  in  the  most  un- 
expected and  agreeable  way.  A  crisp  tinkle  of  bells, 
the  crack  of  a  whip,  and  down  the  road  caine  driving 
an  ethereal  phaeton,  azure  blue  in  colour,  and  in  it  sat 
an  enchantress  most  bewitchingly  clad  in  rose  pink. 

She  too  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  somebody  or 
something,  for  she  pulled  up  ten  yards  off  and  gazed  in 
the  direction  of  the  hunting  horns  which  could  be 
heard  distinctly  in  the  depths  of  the  wood.  To  Andre 
she  was  most  annoyingly  indifferent,  but  the  more  he 
looked  at  her  and  marked  her  exquisite  dress,  her 
wonderful  complexion,  her  seductive  figure,  and  her  en- 
trancing equipage,  the  keener  was  his  chagrin.  Who 
was  this  airy  sylph  of  the  royal  forest,  this  divinity 
floating  in  the  rose  of  the  queen  of  flowers  through  a 
leafless  world  as  Venus  might  have  floated  on  the  sun- 
kissed  foam  at  dawn?  Gods!  What  a  taste  in  dress, 
what  a  bust,  and  what  amorous,  saucy  charm  in  her 
eye! 

Andre  fell  back  behind  the  trees  and  watched;  nor 
did  he  have  to  wait  long  In  five  minutes  the  royal 
hunting  train  swept  by.  The  rose-pink  lady  curtsied 
to  her  sovereign.  A  cry  of  distress!  Her  hat  caught 
by  a  sudden  gust — surely  it  was  very  loosely  set  on 
that  dainty  head — flew  off  and  fell  almost  under  the 
hoofs  of  the  horse  of  the  King  of  France.  Majesty 
looked  up,  coldly,  caught  her  appealing  eye,  looked 
down  at  the  hat,  and  galloped  on  as  if  he  had  seen 

3 


34  No.  101 

neither  the  hat  nor  its  owner.  The  royal  party  be- 
haved exactly  as  did  their  master,  and  the  rose-pink 
goddess  was  left  with  disgust  and  indignation  in  her 
face  and  a  tear  trickling  down  her  cheek. 

Andre"  moved  his  horse  forward,  whereupon  she 
threw  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  almost  comic  in  its 
pathos  and  its  amusement,  as  if  she  did  not  know 
whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry;  a  glance  which  convinced 
his  susceptible  heart  that  she  had  been  perfectly  well 
aware  of  his  presence  all  the  while  and  now  invited 
him  to  take  what  she  had  always  intended  he  should 
have.  In  a  second  he  was  off  his  horse  and  was  hand- 
ing her  the  hat.  Her  bow  and  her  smile  were  more 
than  a  reward,  for  if  the  rose-pink  divinity  was  allur- 
ing seen  from  behind,  she  was  positively  bewitching  at 
a  distance  of  four  feet  in  front.  What  wonderful  eyes! 
They  spoke  at  once  of  everything  that  could  stir  a 
soldier's  soul,  and  her  blush  was  the  blush  of  Aurora. 

With  the  prettiest  hesitation  she  inquired  his  name, 
which  he  only  gave  on  condition  that  she  should  also 
tell  hers.  But  this  she  laughingly  refused.  "  My 
name  is  nothing,"  she  remarked,  "for  I  am  nobody. 
If  you  knew  it  you  would  despise  yourself  for  having 
been  polite  to  a  bourgeoises 

"  Impossible!  "  Andre  cried. 

"But  it  is  so,"  she  persisted,  gravely,  a  challenge 
stealing  from  under  her  demure  eyelashes. 

"  I  shall  find  out,"  Andre"  said,  "  I  shall  not  rest  till 
I  find  out." 


A  Fair  Huntress  35 

"  Then  inquire,"  she  retorted  gaily,  "  Rue  Croix  des 
Petits  Champs — perhaps  you  will  succeed,"  and  with- 
out more  ado  she  flashed  him  a  look  of  defiant  modesty, 
whipped  up  her  ponies,  and  the  azure  phaeton  vanished 
as  rapidly  as  it  had  appeared. 

Andre  stroked  his  chin  meditatively.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  Who  was  the  unknown  and  why  did  she  come 
to  the  woods  in  that  enchanting  guise  ?  A  bourgeoise! 
Pah!  it  would  be  well  if  all  the  women  of  the  bour- 
geoisie and  some  of  the  noblesse  possessed  but  one  of 
the  secrets  of  her  irresistible  womanhood.  But  find 
out  he  must,  and  Andre,  hot  on  this  new  quest,  began 
to  trot  away.  He  was  in  a  rare  humour  now,  for  he 
had  noticed  with  unbounded  satisfaction  that,  while 
Denise  had  been  of  the  royal  party,  that  boyish  Cheva- 
lier had  not. 

But  he  had  not  ridden  far  when  he  was  amazed  to 
discover  by  the  roadside  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless  Ankles 
weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Monseigneur— ah!  it  is  the  good  Monseigneur— 
she  fell  to  crying  again.      "They   have  stolen  my 
spotted  cow,"  she  sobbed,  "robbers  have  stolen  my 
spotted  cow." 

"Robbers?" 

"  But  yes,  three  great  robbers,  and  they  have  beaten 
me  and  taken  Monseigneur 's  piece  too.  My  cow,  my 
spotted  cow! " 

"  See,  Yvonne,"  he  said  soothingly,  "  I  am  no  mon- 


36  No.  101 

seigneur,  I  am  only  a  poor  vicomte,  but  you  shall  have 
another  cow,  a  spotted  cow,  too." 

But  she  would  not  believe  it,  whereupon  he  took  all 
the  money  in  his  purse,  four  gold  pieces  and  three 
silver  ones,  and  thrust  them  into  her  hand. 

She  stared  at  the  money  incredulously. 

"There,  girl,"  he  urged,  for  a  woman's  distress, 
even  though  she  were  only  a  peasant,  hurt  him,  ' '  be 
happy  and  buy  a  fat  and  spotted  cow." 

She  kneeled  to  kiss  his  hand.  "  Monseigneur, "  she 
sobbed,  "is  kind  to  a  poor  wench.  Surely  the  good 
God  has  sent  him  to  me,"  and  she  poured  her  hot  tears 
of  gratitude  on  the  ruffles  of  his  sleeve. 

' '  I  am  happy  again, ' '  she  murmured.  ' '  Yes,  I  will 
buy  a  cow  and  be  happy,"  and  she  began  to  sing, 
flinging  the  coarse  matted  hair  out  of  her  eyes. 

Andre  watched  her  contentedly;  it  was  pleasant  to 
see  her  joy. 

"  Monseigneur  is  not  happy,"  she  surprised  him  by 
saying  shyly. 

"  Can  the  poor  be  happy?  "  he  asked,  absently,  for 
he  was  thinking  of  the  goddess  in  pink. 

"No,"  she  muttered,  "not  while  there  are  robbers 
in  the  land,  and  the  poor  are  taxed  till  they  starve. 
Monseigneur  is  in  love.  Did  I  not  see  him  talk  with 
the  great  lady  in  green  ?  "  she  added  suddenly.  "Ah, 
if  Monseigneur  would  listen  to  a  poor  girl  he  too  could 
be  happy." 

"  Peace!  "  he  commanded,  but  he  was  much  amused. 


A  Fair  Huntress  37 

"I  too  was  in  love,"  she  answered,  "and  women 
stole  my  lover  from  me  as  the  robbers  stole  my  cow, 
and  I  was  sick.  I  wasted  away,  but  the  good  God 
who  sent  me  Monseigneur  put  it  into  my  heart  to  go 
to  the  wise  woman  who  lives  at  '  The  Cock  with  the 
Spurs  of  Gold' " 

"The  Cock ?" 

"  'T  is  a  new  tavern  in  the  woods  by  the  village 
yonder,"  she  replied  earnestly,  "and  a  wise  woman 
lives  there.  For  one  piece  of  silver  she  brought  me 
back  my  lover.  They  say  she  is  a  witch,  but  she  is  no 
witch,  for  with  the  help  of  the  good  God  she  cured  my 
sickness  and  changed  my  lover's  heart  so  that  once 
again  he  was  as  he  had  been." 

"  Tush!  "  Andre  interrupted,  impatiently. 

"But  it  is  true,"  she  persisted.  "And  if  Mon- 
seigneur is  in  distress,  he,  too,  should  go  to  the  wise  wo- 
man, and  she  will  make  him  happy.  It  is  so,  it  is  so." 

"  Adieu,  my  child,  adieu!  " 

' '  Monseigneur  will  not  forget.  '  The  Cock  with  the 
Spurs  of  Gold,'  in  the  woods " 

He  gave  her  matted  head  a  pat.  It  was  a  pity  she 
was  not  pretty,  this  wench,  for  she  had  a  buxom 
figure.  "  A  soldier,"  he  said  lightly,  "  does  not  love 
wise  women,  Yvonne,  he  loves  only  the  young  and 
the  fair  and  he  wins  them  not  by  sorcery,  but  by  his 
sword." 

' '  Monseigneur  is  a  soldier  ?  ' '  she  asked  with  grave 
interest. 


38  No.  101 

"  Yes,  a  soldier  of  France." 

' '  My  lover  too  is  a  soldier,  but  not  as  Monseigneur. 
Ah!  "  she  whispered,  "  if  all  the  nobles  of  France  were 
as  Monseigneur  there  would  be  no  unhappy  women, 
no  robbers,  and  no  poor." 

Andre  left  her  there.  His  heart  was  gay  again 
though  his  purse  was  empty,  for  he  had  made  a  woman 
happy.  And  as  he  rode  through  the  woods  he  could 
hear  her  singing  as  she  had  sung  when  he  had  seen 
her  first  on  the  sleek  back  of  her  spotted  cow.  And 
all  the  way  to  Paris  that  song  of  a  peasant  wench 
softly  caressed  his  spirit,  for  it  clinked  gaily  to  the 
echoes  of  the  soul  as  might  have  clinked  the  golden 
spurs  of  the  cock  in  the  woods  of  Versailles,  and  it 
was  fresh  with  the  eternal  freshness  of  spring  and  the 
immortal  dreams  of  youth. 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  COVER'S  TRICK 

THE  March  sun  was  setting  on  the  hamlet  of  La 
Riviere,  in  the  pleasant  land  of  Touraine — Touraine 
the  fit  home  of  so  many  noble  chateaux,  the  cradle  of 
so  many  of  the  proudest  traditions  and  the  most  in- 
spiring memories  of  the  romance  of  love  and  chivalry 
in  the  history  of  France. 

Andre"  was  standing  in  the  churchyard  of  the  hamlet, 
but  it  was  not  at  the  landscape  that  he  knew  so  well 
that  he  was  looking,  nor  even  up  the  slope  beyond, 
where  the  great  Chateau  de  Beau  Sejour  shot  its  towers 
and  pointed  turrets  through  its  encircling  domain  of 
wood.  Ten  leagues  away  in  the  dim  distance  lay 
NeVac,  the  poverty-stricken  home  from  which  he  took 
his  title,  and  whose  meagre  patrimony  encumbered 
with  the  debts  of  his  ancestors  and  his  own  barely 
sufficed  to  provide  a  living  for  the  widowed  mother 
to  whom  that  morning  he  had  said  good-bye  and 
whom  the  English  in  the  Low  Countries  might  decide 
he  should  never  see  again. 

Yet  it  was  not  of  his  mother  that  he  was  thinking, 


40  No.  101 

still  less  of  the  enchantress  of  the  forest  whose  identity 
he  had  discovered — one  Mademoiselle  d'Etiolles  she 
had  proved  to  be,  "  La  Petite  d'Etiolles,"  as  that  gay 
Lothario  the  Due  de  Richelieu  called  her,  the  daughter 
of  a  Farmer- General,  a  bourgeoisie  notorious  for  her 
beauty,  her  wit,  and  her  friendship  with  the  wits.  In- 
deed he  had  forgotten  the  rose-pink  divinity  in  the 
azure  phaeton  entirely.  No,  he  was  striving  to  pluck 
up  courage  to  face  Denise  and  receive  her  answer. 
For  if  that  answer  was  not  what  he  desired  it  would  be 
better  to  ride  straight  down  into  the  Loire  and  let  the 
last  male  of  the  House  of  Nerac  put  an  end  to  it  for 
ever. 

Twinkling  lights  began  to  shine  in  the  great  chateau; 
its  towers  and  gables  insolent  in  the  majesty  of  their 
beauty,  strong  in  the  might  of  their  antiquity,  chal- 
lenged and  defied  him  in  the  dusk.  That  was  the 
chateau  of  his  Denise,  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour 
whom  he,  gallant  fool,  rich  only  in  his  noble  pedigree, 
dared  to  love  and  hoped  to  win,  Denise  the  richest 
heiress  in  France.  Yet  it  had  not  been  hers  so  long; 
its  broad  seignories  were  a  thing  of  yesterday  for  her. 
Fifteen  years  ago  she,  as  he,  had  been  only  the  child 
of  a  vicomte  as  poor  if  as  noble  as  himself.  And 
Beau  Sejour  lay  not  here,  but  ten  leagues  away,  a  mile 
from  Nerac,  where  that  church  spire  hung  its  cross 
above  the  horizon. 

The  soft  gloom  of  the  growing  dusk  imaged  for 
Andre  at  that  moment  the  sombre  pall  of  tragedy 


A  Lover's  Trick  41 

which  twelve  years  ago  had  fallen  on  the  great 
chateau.  An  ancient  house,  a  venerated  name  had 
been  its  owner's;  were  not  their  achievements  written 
in  the  chronicles  of  France  ?  was  not  their  origin  lost 
in  the  twilight  of  dim  ages  far,  so  far  away  ?  Capets 
and  Valois  and  Bourbons  that  house  had  seen  com- 
ing and  going  on  the  throne,  honour  and  fame  and 
wealth  and  high  endeavour  had  been  theirs,  and  then 
shame  and  doom,  swift,  unexpected,  irreversible.  The 
story  of  their  downfall  had  been  his  first  lesson  learned 
in  budding  manhood  of  the  harshness  of  the  world  and 
the  mystery  of  fate.  Such  a  simple  story,  too.  The  wife 
of  the  Marquis  had  run  away  with  a  lover,  a  base- 
born  stranger  gossip  called  him.  The  lover  had  de- 
serted her,  why  and  where  no  one  knew,  and  disowned 
by  her  husband  she  had  died  miserably.  Her  husband, 
a  soldier  and  ambassador  of  the  great  Louis  Quatorze, 
had  in  despair  or  madness  plunged  into  treason,  and 
had  paid  the  traitor's  penalty  on  the  scaffold.  His 
only  son  and  heir,  from  remorse  or  consciousness  of 
guilt,  had  perished  by  his  own  hand  in  Poland,  whither 
he  had  gone  to  fight  in  the  war.  And  here  to-day  at 
his  feet  a  rough  and  stained  tombstone  marked  the 
neglected  grave  of  the  only  daughter  who  had  remained. 
Had  she  lived  she  would  to-night  have  been  just  two 
years  older  than  Denise;  had  there  been  no  treason, 
she  and  not  Denise  would  have  been  mistress  of  that 
chdteau  now  called  De  Beau  Sejour. 

Denise' s  father   for  service   to  the  state  had  been 


42  No.  101 

awarded  the  lands  of  the  traitor;  the  old  name  for 
centuries  noted  in  this  soil  had  been  annulled  in  infamy; 
its  blood  was  corrupted  by  the  decree  of  the  law,  and 
by  the  King's  will  the  new  Marquis  had  carried  to  his 
new  possessions  the  title  of  his  old,  that  Beau  Sejour 
yonder  so  near  to  his  own  Nerac.  The  law  and  the 
King  so  far  as  in  them  lay  had  determined  that  the 
very  name  and  memory  of  the  ancient  house  should  be 
blotted  out  for  ever.  But  blot  out  the  chateau  they 
could  not.  There  it  stood  haughty  as  of  old,  to  tell  to 
all  what  had  once  been,  and  the  curious  could  still  read 
here  and  there  in  its  storied  walls  the  arms  and  emblems, 
the  scutcheons  and  shields  of  a  family  which  had  given 
nine  Marshals  to  France,  and  in  whose  veins  royal 
blood  had  flowed.  What  did  that  matter  now  ?  To- 
day it  belonged  to  Denise,  once  poor  as  he  was,  and 
destined  to  be  his  bride  before  this  sudden  swoop  up- 
ward on  the  ruins  of  another  to  the  high  places  of 
France. 

As  Andre  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  dusk  the  ghostly 
memories  thickened.  Twenty  years  ago  as  a  boy  he 
had  ridden  with  his  father  to  that  chateau.  He  re- 
membered but  two  things,  but  he  remembered  them  as 
vividly  as  yesterday.  Over  the  chief  gateway  a  splen- 
did coat  of  arms  had  caught  his  boyish  fancy  and  he 
had  asked  what  the  motto  "Dieu  Le  Vengeur"  might 
mean.  "  Why,  father,  there  it  is  again,"  he  had  cried, 
for  in  the  noble  hall,  above  the  famous  sculptured  chim- 
ney-piece, the  first  thing  that  caught  the  boy's  eye  was 


A  Lover's  Trick  43 

the  scroll  with  those  three  words  "Dzeu  Le  Vengeur." 
And  the  second  memory  was  of  a  little  girl  playing 
with  a  huge  wolf-hound  in  the  dancing  firelight  under 
that  motto,  a  little  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair, 
innocent  of  the  evil  to  come,  playing  in  her  hall  which 
had  seen  kings  and  queens  for  guests.  "  Dieu  Le 
Vengeur"  she  had  repeated — "  God  will  protect  me," 
and  they  had  all  laughed.  But  had  God  protected  her  ? 
Here  was  her  grave  at  his  feet.  Andre  now  recalled 
his  dying  father's  remark  five  years  later,  when  he  had 
heard  how  his  neighbour  the  Comte  de  Beau  S6jour 
had  been  rewarded  with  the  treason-tainted  marquisate. 
"That  would  have  been  yours,  Andre",  my  son,"  he 
had  said.  And  no  one  had  understood,  and  he  had 
died  before  he  could  explain,  if  explain  he  could.  That, 
too,  had  been  another  bitter  lesson  in  the  cruelty  of  fate, 
in  the  bleak,  bitter  tragedy  of  baffled  and  unfulfilled 
ambitions. 

Smitten  with  a  sudden  pity,  a  sharp  anguish,  Andre 
kneeled  in  the  damp,  tangled  grass  and  peered  at  the 
tombstone  which  marked  the  humble  resting-place  of 
the  dead,  worse  than  dead,  dishonoured  and  infamous. 
"  Marie  Angelique  Jeanne  Gabrielle  ..."  the 
rest  was  eaten  away.  But  in  the  church  close  by  lay 
the  coffins  of  her  ancestors,  the  crusaders  and  nobles, 
and  Marshals  of  France.  The  names  had  been  ob- 
literated. But  not  even  a  wronged  king  had  dared  to 
remove  the  tombs  with  which  that  church  was  eloquent 
of  the  glories  that  had  once  been  theirs.  Yes,  they  lay 


44  No.  101 

there  of  right,  but  she,  little  Marie,  cradled  in  splen- 
dour, who  had  prattled  of  "Dieu  Le  Vengeur"  she,  the 
daughter  of  a  wanton  and  a  traitor,  lay  here  in  the  rain, 
and  the  sheep  and  the  goats  browsed  over  her,  and  the 
sabots  of  those  once  her  serfs  and  tenants  made  an 
insulting  path  over  her  grave.  And  up  there  another 
reigned  in  her  place. 

A  traitor!  Yes,  his  daughter  deserved  her  fate. 
There  should  be  no  mercy  for  traitors. 

"  What  seek  you,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte?  " 

He  started  at  the  question.  It  was  the  Chevalier  de 
St.  Amaut,  boyish,  insolent,  though  his  tone  was 
strangely  soft. 

"  I  was  finding  a  lesson,"  Andre  replied  quietly. 

"  In  a  tombstone?" 

Andre  explained.  The  Chevalier  seemed  impressed, 
for  he  went  down  on  his  knees  and  peered  for  some 
minutes  at  the  weather-beaten  stone. 

' '  Poor  child !  "  he  muttered.     ' '  Poor  child ! ' ' 

Andre  was  thinking  the  Chevalier  was  better  than 
he  had  supposed,  but  his  next  action  jarred  harshly. 
Standing  carelessly  on  the  stone  he  gathered  his  cloak 
about  him.  "Ah,  well,"  he  remarked,  with  his  dare- 
devil lightness,  "it  is  perhaps  more  fortunate  for  you 
or  me  that  little  Marie  is  where  she  is. ' ' 

"  For  you  or  me?"  Andre  questioned,  peering  into 
his  young  face. 

"  The  Marquise  awaits  you,  Vicomte,"  he  twitched 
his  thumb  towards  the  chateau,  "perhaps  you  will 


A  Lover's  Trick  45 

understand  better  when  you  have  seen  her,"  and  with 
a  careless  tip  of  his  saucy  hat  he  strode  away. 

For  one  minute  Andre  burned  to  seize  that  cloak  and 
speak  to  him  very  straightly.  "Pah!"  he  muttered, 
"  it  will  do  later.  Perhaps  it  will  not  be  necessary  at 
all." 

But  it  was  with  increased  misgiving  that  he  rode  up 
to  the  chateau. 

Denise  received  him  in  the  great  hall,  unconsciously 
reproducing  the  picture  which  was  burnt  into  Andre's 
memory,  for  she  stood  with  a  certain  sweet  stateliness 
by  the  sculptured  chimney-piece  and  a  huge  hound  lay 
at  her  feet.  Above  her  head  the  emblazoned  scutcheon 
of  the  old  house  still  adorned  the  noble  carving — indeed 
you  could  not  have  destroyed  the  one  without  destroy- 
ing the  other — and  the  glad  firelight  which  threw  such 
subtly  entrancing  shadows  on  the  dress  and  girlish 
figure  of  the  young  Marquise  seemed  to  point  with 
tongues  of  flame  to  that  sublime  motto,  "  Dieu  Le 
Vengeur  ! ' '  above  her  head. 

Andre  bowed  and  halted.  Ambition,  passion,  and 
hope  conspired  to  choke  him  for  the  moment.  How 
fair  and  noble  she  was!  yes,  surpassingly  fair  and 
noble. 

Denise  said  nothing.  She  stared  at  the  buckle  of 
her  slipper. 

"  I  have  come  for  my  answer,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

She  met  his  pleading  eyes  fearlessly.     "  The  answer 


46  No.  101 

is,  '  No,'  "  she  replied,  and  her  voice,  too,  was  low,  as  if 
she  could  not  trust  it. 

"  No?"  he  repeated,  half  stunned. 

She  simply  bowed  her  head. 

"  You  mean  it?    Oh,  Denise,  you  cannot  mean  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  reflected  and  I  mean  it." 

"For  always?" 

"Yes." 

Andre  stepped  nearer.  "I  do  not  remind  you, 
Denise,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a  composure  won  by 
a  mighty  mastery  of  himself,  ' '  that  I  love  you,  that  I 
have  loved  you  since  I  could  love  any  woman.  If  you 
would  not  believe  it  before  I  was  taken  prisoner,  when  I 
spoke  in  the  woods  of  Versailles,  you  would  not  believe 
it  now.  Nor  do  I  remind  you  that  twelve  months  ago 
you  spoke  very  differently.  A  lover  and  a  gentleman 
does  not  speak  of  these  things  when  the  answer  has 
been  '  No.'  But  I  do  ask  you,  before  you  say  '  No,  ' 
always  to  remember  that  it  was  the  wish  of  your 
dead  father  and  of  mine  that  the  answer  should  be 
'Yes.'" 

"  My  father  died  five  years  ago,  yours  even  longer," 
she  answered. 

"  Do  the  years  alter  their  wish  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a 
touch  of  passion,  "do  they  make  a  promise,  good  faith, 
honour,  less  a  promise,  less ' ' 

"  There  was  no  promise,"  she  interrupted. 

He  bowed  calmly.  The  gesture  was  better  than 
speech. 


A  Lover's  Trick  47 

"  And  your  reason,  Denise?" 

' '  I  said  I  would  give  you  an  answer,  I  did  not  under- 
take to  give  reasons." 

"  Certainly.  May  I  plead,  however,  that  perhaps, 
remembering  the  past,  what  you  and  I  have  been  to 
each  other  since  childhood,  I  have  some  right  to 
ask?" 

She  placed  her  fan  on  the  shelf  of  the  chimney  with 
sharp  decision.  The  firelight  flashed  in  her  grey  eyes. 
"  I  refuse,"  she  said,  very  distinctly,  "  to  marry  a  man 
who  does  not  love  me." 

"Then  you  do  not  believe  my  words?"  he  ques- 
tioned quickly. 

"You  are  a  noble,  Andre","  she  answered;  "the 
courtesy  of  a  noble  and  a  gentleman  requires  that  when 
he  demands  a  woman's  hand  in  marriage  he  should 
profess  to  love  her.  For  the  honour  you  have  done 
me  I  thank  you,  but  a  woman  finds  the  proof  not  in 
words  but  in  deeds.  You  are  a  brave  soldier,  but  you 
do  not  love  me.  That  is  enough." 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough  for  me,"  he  answered. 

' '  Very  well. ' '  She  took  a  step  forward.  ' '  I  had  no 
desire  to  discuss  things  not  fit  for  a  girl  to  speak  of  to 
a  man  who  has  done  her  the  honour  to  ask  her  hand 
in  marriage,  and  I  would  have  spared  both  myself  and 
you  unnecessary  pain.  Plainly  then  and  briefly,  when 
I  take  a  husband  I  do  not  choose  to  share  what  he  pro- 
fesses is  his  love  with  any  other  woman.  That  is  my 
reason  and  my  answer  in  one." 


48  No.  101 

A  flush  darkened  his  sallow  cheek.  "It  is  not 
true,"  he  protested  passionately,  "  it  is  not  true." 

"  You  would  deny  it?  "  she  cried,  passion  too  leap- 
ing into  her  voice.  "  Is  that  letter  to  the  Comtesse  des 
Forges,  one  of  my  friends — my  friends,  mon  Dieu  ! — 
yours,  or  is  it  not  ? ' '  She  handed  it  to  him  with  hot 
scorn. 

"  It  was  written  twelve  months  ago,"  he  said, 
somewhat  lamely. 

"And  the  duel  which  it  caused  is  twelve  months 
ago,  too,  I  suppose?  The  right  arm  of  her  husband 
the  Comte  des  Forges  is  healed,  but  the  wound — my 
God!  the  wound  in  his  heart  and  mine,  that  you  can 
never  heal.  And  she  is  not  alone.  Does  not  Paris 
ring  with  the  gallantries  of  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac? 
For  aught  I  know  there  may  be  a  dozen  husbands  in 
England  who  have  lost  their  sword  arm  because  Andre 
de  Nerac  professed  to  love  their  wives."  She  checked 
herself  and  was  calm  again.  "  I  thank  you  for  the 
honour  you  have  done  me,  but — "  she  offered  him 
the  stateliest,  coldest  curtsey,  ' '  Vicomte,  I  am  your 
servant." 

She  would  have  escaped  by  the  door  behind  her,  but 
Andr6  intercepted  her.  "  No,"  he  said,  "you  do  not 
leave  me  yet.  I,  too,  have  something  to  say  and  you, 
Marquise,  will  be  pleased  to  hear  it." 

Their  eyes  met  and  then  Denise  walked  back  to  her 
place  by  the  fireplace.  She  was  trembling  now,  and 
she  no  longer  looked  him  in  the  face. 


A  Lover's  Trick  49 

"  As  to  the  past,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  say 
nothing,  for  I  deserve  your  reproaches.  I  have  been 
foolish,  wicked,  unworthy  of  you.  But  there  is  no 
noble  to-day  at  Versailles  of  whom  the  same  could  not 
be  said.  Men  are  men,  and  I  have  never  concealed 
from  you  what  I  have  been.  But  such  things  do  not 
destroy  love.  They  cannot  and  they  never  will,  and 
every  woman  knows  it.  My  past,  I  assert,  is  not  your 
reason." 

' '  What  then  is  ?  "  she  asked  proudly. 

"  I  am  poor,  you  are  rich,  but  that  is  not  the  rea- 
son, either.  Do  not  think  I  would  dishonour  you 
by  supposing  that  I  believed  that,  though  some 
whom  you  call  your  friends  say  it  is.  No,  the 
reason  is  that  while  I  have  been  away,  a  prisoner, 
defenceless,  silent,  some  one — "  he  paused,  "  some  one 
has  been  poisoning  your  mind,  some  one  who  hopes  to 
take  the  place " 

' '  Take  care ' '  she  interrupted. 

"  You  speak  of  the  gossip  of  Paris.  I  will  not  tell 
you  what  the  gossip  of  Paris  and  Versailles  says,  for 
you  will  hear  it  and  more  fitly  from  other  lips  than 
mine.  But  I  say,  that  poisoner  will  answer  to  me." 

She  was  about  to  speak,  but  checked  herself. 

"And  I  will  tell  you  why.  First  because  I  love  you 
and  I  love  no  one  else.  You  do  not  believe  it.  You 
ask  for  deeds,  not  words.  In  the  future  you  shall  have 
them.  And  second,  because  you,  Denise,  love  me,  yes, 
love  me." 


50  No,  101 

"  Have  done,  have  done  with  this  mockery!"  she 
cried. 

"Tell  me,"  was  his  answer,  "on  your  word  of 
honour,  that  it  is  not  so,  tell  me  that  you  do  not  love 
me  and  never  will,  tell  me  that  you  love  another  and 
on  my  word  as  a  gentleman  I  will  never  speak  of  love 
to  you  again." 

Dead  silence.     Andre"  waited  quietly. 

"  I  refuse,"  she  said,  slowly,  picking  the  words,  "  to 
be  questioned  in  this  manner.  But  as  you  insist,  I  re- 
peat— I  do  not  love  you." 

Andre  bowed.  "  One  word  more,  Denise,  if  you 
please,"  he  said,  "  one  word  and  I  leave  your  presence 
for  ever." 

She  drew  herself  up.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  leave  me 
for  ever."  But  for  all  that  she,  as  he,  seemed  spell- 
bound to  the  spot. 

Andre  deliberately  drew  from  his  pocket  the  letter 
that  she  had  thrown  in  his  teeth  and  faced  her. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said,  very  calmly.  "  Now  that  I 
know  you  mean  what  you  said,  I,  too,  know  what  I 
must  do."  He  walked  away. 

"  Give  me  that  letter,"  she  said  with  a  swift  flash  of 
command.  "  It  belongs  to  me." 

"Pardon,"  he  answered,  quietly,  "yesterday  the 
Comte  des  Forges  was  killed  by  a  friend  of  his  whose 
honour  he  had  betrayed.  The  letter  belongs  to  the 
lady  to  whom  it  was  written,  the  lady  who  will  be  the 
Vicomtesse  de  Nerac." 


A  Lover's  Trick  51 

A  faint  cry  escaped  from  Denise's  lips.  For  the 
moment  she  leaned  faint  against  the  chimney-piece, 
white  and  sick. 

Andre"  looked  at  her,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  offer 
her  either  sympathy  or  help.  Then  he  walked  back, 
Denise  watching  him,  and  flung  the  letter  into  the  fire. 
Denise  started,  but  she  said  nothing,  though  her  great 
grey  eyes  were  eloquent  with  half  a  dozen  questions. 

"The  letter  has  served  its  purpose,"  Andre"  said. 
"  Adieu,  Marquise  !  " 

"What  does  this — this  trickery  mean?"  she  de- 
manded, hotly. 

"You  must  forgive  one  who  loves  you,"  was  the 
calm  reply,  "  for  love  laughs  at  tricks.  The  Comte 
des  Forges  is  alive  and  well:  he  has  a  wound  in  his 
shoulder  which  is  only  a  scratch,  for  the  poor  Comte  is 
always  believing  that  some  one  is  betraying  his  honour 
and  Madame  the  Comtesse  has  a  fickle  heart.  Yester- 
day I  was  his  second,  so  I  know." 

"  Then — then — "  she  cried  and  stopped. 

Andre"  bowed  most  courteously.  "  You  refused  to 
believe  me,  Mademoiselle:  I  returned  the  compliment 
and  refused  to  believe  you — and  I  proved  it  by  a  lover's 
trick,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  such.  That  is  all,  but  it 
is  enough." 

"  Ah!  "  She  crumpled  up  the  fan  in  speechless  in- 
dignation. 

"  No,  Denise,"  he  said  softly.  "  I  shall  not  trouble 
you  now  or  soon,  but — "  he  had  caught  her  hand — 


52  No.  101 

"you  shall  yet  be  mine,  I  swear  it.     You  think  you  do 
not  love  me,  but  you  shall  be  convinced — you  shall." 

He  kissed  her  fingers  with  a  tender  reverence. 
"  Adieu,  Marquise!  I  go  to  my  duty  and  revenge," 
he  said,  and  he  left  her  there  under  the  spell  of  his 
mastery,  with  her  boar-hound  at  her  feet,  and  the 
flames  of  fire  pointing  to  the  motto  '  lDieu  Le  Vengeur!  ' ' 


. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PRESUMPTION  OP  A  BEARDLESS  CHEVALIER 

ANDRE;  rode  at  a  walking  pace  down  the  slope  to  the 
village,  for  he  wanted  to  think.  He  had  always  prided 
himself  on  his  knowledge  of  women;  he  had  imagined 
he  knew  Denise  as  well  as  himself.  She  was  of  his 
class,  lovely,  high-spirited,  proud,  patriotic,  and  best 
of  all  a  true  woman.  Hence  it  was  a  sore  and  sur- 
prising blow  to  his  pride  to  discover  that  she  should 
reject  his  love  because  he  had  lived  the  life  of  his  and 
her  class.  He  had  gone  to  the  chdteau  to  confess 
everything,  to  swear  that  from  this  day  onwards  no 
other  woman,  be  she  beautiful  as  the  dawn,  as  enchant- 
ing as  Circe,  could  ever  occupy  five  minutes  of  his 
thoughts.  And  he  meant  it.  Those  others,  the  shat- 
tered idols  of  a  vanished  past,  had  simply  satisfied 
vanity,  ambition,  a  physical  craving.  But  Denise  he 
really  loved.  She  inspired  a  devotion,  a  passion  which 
gripped  and  satisfied  body,  soul,  and  spirit;  she  was 
that  without  which  life  seemed  unmeaning,  empty, 
poor,  despicable.  But  why  could  not  she  see  this — 
the  difference  between  a  fleeting  desire  and  the  sincere 

53 


54  No.  101 

homage  of  manhood  to  an  ideal,  between  the  gallant 
and  the  lover  ?  What  more  had  a  wife  a  right  to  ex- 
pect than  the  love  of  a  husband,  brave,  loyal,  faithful  ? 
It  was  unreasonable,  for  men  were  men  and  women 
were  women.  Yet  here  was  a  woman  who  did. 

But  he  would — must — win  her.  That  was  the  ada- 
mantine resolution  in  his  breast,  all  the  stronger  be- 
cause she  had  scorned  and  defied  him.  Yet  he  would 
win  her  in  his  way,  not  hers.  Yes,  he  would  conquer 
her  against  herself.  For  him  life  now  meant  simply 
Denise — the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  spirit  of  Denise 
— the  conquest  of  a  woman's  will.  The  hot  pulses  of 
health  and  strength,  of  manhood,  his  noble  blood  and 
ambition  throbbed  responsive  to  the  resolution.  He 
thanked  God  that  he  was  young  and  a  soldier,  that 
there  was  war  and  a  prize  to  be  won.  Yet  he  also  felt 
that  this  love  meant  something  new,  that  it  had  trans- 
formed him  into  something  that  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  as  possible.  And  victory  would  complete  the  change. 
So  as  he  rode  the  fierce  thoughts  tumbled  over  each 
other  in  a  foam  of  passion,  in  the  sublime  intoxication 
of  a  vision  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth — from 
which  he  was  rudely  awakened. 

He  had  halted  for  the  moment  at  the  door  of  the 
village  inn.  In  the  dingy  parlour  sat  the  Chevalier, 
one  leg  thrown  over  the  table,  a  beaker  in  his  hand 
resting  on  his  thigh,  while  his  other  hand  was  stroking 
the  chin  of  the  waiting  wench,  a  strapping,  tawdry 
slut. 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  55 

Andre  kicked  the  door  open.  "  Am  I  disturbing 
you  ?  "  he  said,  pitching  his  hat  off  as  if  the  parlour 
were  his  own. 

' '  Not  in  the  least, ' '  the  Chevalier  replied  without 
stirring,  though  the  girl  began  to  giggle  with  an  affec- 
tation of  alarmed  modesty.  ' '  My  wine  is  just  done ' ' ; 
he  drained  off  the  glass.  "  I  will  leave  Toinette  to 
you,  Vicomte,  for,"  he  put  on  his  hat,  "it  is  time  I 
returned  to  the  cha'teau." 

This  studied  insolence  was  exactly  what  Andre  re- 
quired. "I  thank  you,"  he  said,  freezingly  "but 
before  I  take  your  place,  you  and  I,  Monsieur  le  Cheva- 
lier, will  have  a  word  first." 

"  As  you  please,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  said  the  young 
man,  swinging  comfortably  on  to  the  table  and  peering 
at  him  from  under  his  saucy  plumes.  ' '  You  will  have 
much  to  say,  I  doubt  not,  for  you  must  have  said  so 
little  at  the  chdteau.  Run  away,  my  child,"  he  added 
to  the  wench,  who  was  now  staring  at  them  both  with 
genuine  alarm  in  her  coarse  eyes,  "  run  away." 

Andre  closed  the  door.  ' '  You  will  not  return  to  the 
cha'teau,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  My  dear  Vicomte,  you  suffer  from  the  strangest  hal- 
lucinations, stupid  phantoms  of  the  mind,  if  you " 

"  Perhaps,"  was  the  cold  reply,  "  but  the  point  of  a 
sword  is  a  reality  which  exorcises  any  and  every 
phantom." 

The  Chevalier  laughed  softly. 

"Yes,"  Andre*  continued,  "I  say  it  with  infinite 


56  No.  101 

regret,  because  you  are  young,  you  will  not  return  to 
the  chateau,  for  I  am  going  to  kill  you,  unless " 

"Unless?"  The  Chevalier  slowly  swung  off  the 
table. 

"  Unless  you  will  give  me  your  word  of  honour  now 
that  you  will  leave  France  to-morrow  and  never  return. " 

The  young  man  reflectively  put  back  one  of  his 
dainty  love  curls.  "Ah,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  he  an- 
swered, "  I  say  it  too  with  infinite  regret,  but  that  I 
cannot  promise.  So  you  must  kill  me  I  fear.  Alas ! ' ' 
he  added  with  dilatory  derision,  "alas!  what  have  I 
done?" 

"  Very  good  " — Andre  fastened  his  cloak — "  in  three 
days  we  will  meet  in  Paris." 

' '  In  Paris  ?    Why  not  kill  me  here  ? ' ' 

' '  Here  ? ' '     Andre  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

1 '  Here  and  at  once. ' '  He  walked  to  the  door. 
"  Two  torches,"  he  called,  "  two  torches." 

When  he  had  lit  them  the  Chevalier  marched  out. 
"This  way,"  he  said  politely;  "permit  me  to  show 
you,  with  infinite  regret,  where  you  can  kill  me." 

Half  expecting  a  trick  or  foul  play  Andre  followed 
him  cautiously  until  he  stopped  in  a  deserted  stable 
yard,  paved  and  clean,  and  completely  shut  in  by  high 
walls.  The  young  man  gravely  placed  one  torch  in  a 
ring  on  the  north  wall  and  the  other  on  the  wall 
opposite. 

"  That,"  he  said,  in  the  pleasantest  manner  possible, 
"  will  make  the  lights  fair.  You  "—he  pointed  to  the 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  57 

west — "  will  stand  there,  or  here,  if  you  prefer,  to  the 
east.  You  will  agree,  doubtless,  that  to  a  man  who  is 
to  be  killed  it  is  a  trifle  where  he  stands." 

The  torches  flared  stnokily  in  the  April  dusk.  He 
was  mad,  this  boyish  fool,  stark,  raving  mad.  But 
how  prettily  and  elegantly  he  played  the  part. 

"  See,"  the  Chevalier  said  lightly,  "  there  is  no  one 
to  interrupt — the  murder.  Toinette  knows  neither  my 
name  nor  yours;  she  will  hold  her  tongue  for  money 
and  in  half  an  hour  you  will  be  gone — and  I" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "  well,  it  is  clean  lying  here, 
cleaner,  anyway,  than  under  the  grass  in  that  dirty 
churchyard." 

"  You  mean  it? "  Andre"  asked  slowly. 

The  Chevalier  took  off  his  saucy  hat  and  fine  coat, 
hung  them  upon  one  of  the  rusty  rings  in  the  wall, 
and  turned  back  his  lace  ruffles.  A  flash — his  sword 
had  cut  a  rainbow  through  the  dusk  across  the  yellow 
flare  of  the  torches.  "  I  am  at  your  service,  Vicomte," 
he  said  with  a  low  bow.  "  And  I  shall  return  to  the 
chateau  when  and  how  I  please,  and  I  shall  be  wel- 
come, eh  ?  " 

"  By  God!  "  Andre"  ripped  out.  "  By  God!  I  will 
kill  you." 

He  too  had  flung  off  his  coat  and  cloak  and  took  the 
position  by  the  east  wall.  A  strange  duel  this,  as- 
suredly not  the  first  in  which  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac 
had  fought  for  a  woman's  sake,  but  the  strangest, 
maddest  that  man's  wit  or  a  boy's  folly  could  have 


58  No.  101 

devised.  Andre  was  as  cold  as  ice  now,  and  he  calmly 
surveyed  his  opponent  as  he  tried  the  steel  of  his  blade. 
How  young  and  supple  and  insolently  gay  the  beard- 
less popinjay  was;  but  he  had  the  fencer's  figure,  and 
the  handling  of  his  weapon  revealed  to  the  trained  eye 
that  this  would  be  no  affair  of  six  passes  and  a  coup  de 
mcdtre.  Yet  never  did  Andre  feel  so  calmly  confident 
of  his  own  famed  skill  and  rich  experience.  No,  he 
would  not  kill  him,  but  he  would  teach  him  a  lesson 
that  he  would  not  forget. 

For  a  brief  minute  both  scanned  the  ground  care- 
fully, testing  it  with  their  feet,  and  marking  the  falling 
of  the  lights  from  those  smoking  torches,  the  flickering 
of  the  shadows  in  the  raw  chill  of  eve.  All  around 
was  deathly  still.  Not  so  much  as  the  cluck  of  a  hen 
to  break  the  misty  silence. 

"On  guard!" 

The  Chevalier  was  about  eight  paces  off.  He  now 
came  slowly  forward,  eagerly  watching  for  the  right 
moment  to  engage.  A  swift  movement  as  of  a  strong 
spring  unbound — a  flash — and  steel  clashed  on  steel. 
Yes,  the  young  man  could  fence.  The  true  swords- 
man's wrist  could  be  felt  in  his  blade,  the  swordsman's 
eye  in  his  point,  and  his  passes  came  with  the  ease  of 
that  mastery  of  style,  swiftness,  and  precision  that  the 
fencer  can  feel  but  not  describe.  For  a  couple  of  min- 
utes both  played  with  the  greatest  caution,  for  they 
were  both  in  the  deadliest  earnest.  True,  this  was 
idle  flummery  at  present;  each  had  still  to  know  the 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  59 

ground,  to  learn  the  secrets  of  those  cruelly  baffling 
lights,  to  get  the  measure  of  the  other's  powers.  A 
false  step,  a  misjudged  lunge,  a  gust  of  wind,  a  foolish 
contempt  might  mean  death.  And  for  one,  at  least, 
the  issue  was  Denise. 

So  Andr6,  who  had  always  relied  on  his  fire  and 
quickness  to  disconcert,  flurry,  and  tempt,  kept  him- 
self sternly  in  hand,  offering  no  openings  and  disre- 
garding all.  The  moment  would  come  presently,  the 
divine  moment,  and  then ! 

They  were  both  shifting  ground  slowly,  and  in  their 
caution  they  gradually  edged  and  wheeled  until  the 
Chevalier  almost  stood  where  Andre  had  started. 

"Bah!"  the  young  man  cried,  "this  is  tedious," 
and  he  suddenly  changed  his  tactics.  He  was  now 
attacking  with  a  fiery  swiftness  which  made  Andre's 
blood  warm,  and  stirred  his  admiration,  but  he  noted 
with  joy  how  reckless  his  opponent  was  growing. 
Twice  the  lad  only  saved  himself  by  the  most  dexter- 
ous reversing  of  his  lunges. 

"Fool!"  Andre  muttered  to  himself,  "that  is  not 
the  game  to  play  with  me;  in  three  minutes  he  will  be 
mine,"  and  he,  too,  began  to  press  his  attack.  Ah! — 
ah! — only  by  the  swiftest  convolutions  of  that  supple 
body  had  the  Chevalier  saved  himself.  Andre  began 
to  nerve  himself  for  a  final  assault.  Should  he  give  him 
the  point  in  his  sword  arm — his  shoulder,  or  his  lungs  ? 
And  then  the  torch  light  flared  right  into  his  face. 

In  a  second  he  saw  what  it  all  meant.     By  those 


60  No.  101 

superb  reversed  lunges  he  had  been  lured  on  till  he 
had  been  manoeuvred  into  a  place  where  both  torches 
fell  in  his  eyes  and  that  young  devil  had  the  lights  be- 
hind him.  He — he,  Andre  de  N6rac,  had  been  out- 
played by  this  beardless  youth !  And  now  he  was  in  a 
corner  of  this  damned  courtyard  with  the  cursed  flicker 
from  the  walls  making  lightning  on  the  crossed  steel. 
"Diable!"  he  growled,  "you  would!"  and  he  flung 
himself  on  his  opponent  in  the  madness  of  despair  and 
wrath.  It  was  now  almost  a  m£lee  corps  &  corps,  but 
the  Chevalier  would  not  give  way.  He  had  penned 
Andr&  to  the  place  he  desired  and  he  meant  to  keep 
him  there. 

'  'Hold. !    Je  louche  /  "  he  cried. 

How  had  it  happened  ?  One  of  the  torches  had  gone 
out  in  a  puff  of  air,  Andrews  sword  was  on  the  stones 
and  the  Chevalier  had  his  foot  on  it.  By  an  infernal 
Italian  trick  he  had  dropped  on  one  knee,  the  lunge 
that  should  have  gone  through  his  heart  had  passed 
over  his  head  and  by  some  superhuman  secret  he  had 
twisted  the  weapon  from  his  opponent's  grasp.  Yes, 
Andre"  had  lost  Denise  and  death  was  upon  him. 

With  a  quick  gesture  the  Chevalier  pitched  the  sword 
over  the  wall  and  stood  sword  in  hand  facing  the  de- 
fenceless Andr£.  The  breeze  stirred  his  dainty  love 
locks. 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  will 
perhaps  permit  me  now  to  return  to  the  chateau.  I 
have  had  my  lesson."  Andr6  clenched  his  fists  sul- 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  61 

lenly.  "Toinette,"  the  young  man  called,  dropping  his 
point,  "Toinette,  bring  another  torch,  and  assist  Mon- 
sieur le  Vicomte  with  his  coat.  You  are  a  good  wench, 
Toinette,  and  a  discreet,  is  it  not  so  ?' ' 

"  Curse  your  Italian  tricks,"  Andr6  growled,  "  curse 
you  and  your  Italian  tricks." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  trick,  learned  in  Italy  from  a  great 
master  in  the  art.  But  all  is  fair  in  war — and  in  love  ! 
I  did  not  wish  to  be  killed  and  you  are  too  good  a 
swordsman  for  any  one  to  beat  in  half  an  hour,  and  that 
is  all  I  had.  Come,  Vicomte,  we  have  had  our  little 
encounter.  Can  we  not  be  friends?"  He  offered  his 
hand. 

Andre  stared  sulkily,  yet  feeling  somewhat  ashamed. 

"I  am  not  going  to  the  chateau,"  the  Chevalier 
added  quietly.  ' '  I,  too,  am  going  to  the  war  with  my 
master  and  yours,  the  King.  If  it  will  satisfy  you,  I 
will  promise  not  to  speak  to  Mademoiselle  the  Marquise 
de  Beau  Sejour  until  we  both  return." 

' '  You  can  do  as  you  please  with  regard  to  Made- 
moiselle la  Marquise, ' '  Andr£  said  sharply. 

"And  will  you  do  me  a  favour?"  the  young  man 
pleaded.  ' '  I  beg  you  that  for  the  future  you  will  not 
speak  of  our  meeting  here  to  any  one." 

"Why?" 

"Simply  because  I  regret  now  that  I  prevented  myself 
from  being  killed  by  a  low  trick.  Life  to  the  young  is 
sweet — it  is  my  sole  excuse  to  a  better  swordsman  than 
myself." 


62  No.  101 

"  Very  well,"  Andre"  answered,  touched  to  the  quick 
by  the  faultless  delicacy  with  which  the  compliment 
was  paid. 

"  I  thank  you.  Perhaps  now  you  will  give  me  your 
hand?" 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

The  Chevalier  had  for  the  moment  stormed  his  heart 
with  the  same  superb  grace  that  he  had  robbed  him  of 
his  sword. 

"Adieu!" 

And  then  in  the  sorest  dudgeon  Andre  strode  out  in 
search  of  his  sword.  To  his  surprise  the  wall  of  the 
court  where  they  had  fought  backed  on  to  the  church- 
yard, and  a  few  minutes'  groping  revealed  his  sword  by 
the  strangest  accident  lying  in  the  damp,  matted  grass 
that  sprawled  over  the  tombstone  of  the  little  Mar- 
quise Marie.  Yes,  at  that  bitter  moment  he  could 
have  shed  tears  of  shame  as  he  recalled  the  defeat  and 
the  humiliation  inflicted  on  him  by  that  beardless  boy, 
on  him,  a  Capitaine-I,ieutenant  of  the  Chevau-le'gers  de 
la  Garde,  on  him  who  had  never  been  vanquished  yet. 
And  he  had  sworn  to  win  Denise  !  Why  was  he  not 
lying  under  the  sod,  forgotten  and  dead  to  the  pain  of 
the  world,  like  little  Marie  ? 

A  figure  was  creeping  past  him  in  the  dark — a 
woman  ! 

"  Who  is  that?"  he  cried  sharply,  plucking  at  her 
hood. 

"Monseigneur,  it  is  me — me,  Monseigneur." 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  63 

"  Yvonne  !  "  He  let  the  hood  go  as  if  he  had  been 
stabbed. 

"But  yes,  Monseigneur,  Yvonne  of  the  Spotted 
Cow."  She  kissed  his  hand,  humbly. 

' '  Yvonne, ' '  he  gasped .     ' '  What  do  you  here  ? ' ' 

"  I  was  born  in  this  village,"  she  answered,  "  my 
mother,  she  lives  here.  She  is  old,  my  mother." 

"  You— bora  here  ?" 

"Surely,  Monseigneur.     It  is  the  truth." 

Andre"  shivered.  Half  an  hour  ago  how  near  his 
mother,  who  was  old  too,  had  been  to  praying  for  the 
soul  of  her  only  son.  And  she  had  been  spared  that 
pain  by  the  courtesy  of  a  beardless  chevalier. 

"And  what  do  you  now  in  the  churchyard?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  come  to  say  my  prayers  for  the  little  Marquise 
Marie.  She  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  good  God,  is  our 
little  Marquise,  but  I  say  a  prayer  for  her  soul  when  I 
am  happy." 

"And  why  do  you  pray  for  the  Marquise  Marie  ?  "  he 
asked. 

' '  Because  surely  she  is  our  Marquise.  That  other' ' — 
she  waved  a  hand  at  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  noble 
chateau — "  the  King  gave  to  us,  but  there  is  only  one 
Marquise  for  us  here,  the  little  lady  Marie,  who  is  dead. 
Dieu  Le  Vengeur !  Dieu  Le  Vengeur!"  she  whis- 
pered softly  below  her  breath. 

"  Peace,  girl,  peace,"  he  said,  half  sadly,  half 
angrily. 


64  No.  101 

"  Monseigneur,"  Yvonne  whispered,  "Monseigneur 
loves  the  Marquise  Denise " 

' '  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  he  demanded  so  fiercely  that 
Yvonne  shrank  back. 

"  It  was  the  wise  woman,"  she  answered,  "  the  wise 
woman  of  '  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold, '  who 
knows  everything.  Ah  !  if  Monseigneur  would  go  to 
the  wise  woman  she  would  tell  him  how  he  might  win 
the  Marquise  Denise.  Did  she  not  give  me  back  my 
lover,  did  she  not  tell  me  where  to  find  again  my 
spotted  cow,  did  she  not  tell  me  that  Monseigneur 
would  be  here  to-day  ? ' ' 

' '  She  told  you  that  ?  "  he  gasped. 

' '  Yes,  Monseigneur. ' ' 

Andre  sat  down  on  the  tombstone  in  the  supremest 
amazement  and  confusion.  What  did  it,  could  it  mean  ? 

"  I  will  pray,"  Yvonne  went  on  in  her  innocent,  soft 
voice,  ' '  to  our  little  Marquise  that  Monseigneur  may 
marry  the  Marquise  Denise." 

"Why?"  Andre  asked. 

"  Because  then  Monseigneur  will  be  our  lord  and  we 
will  be  his  serfs." 

"  You  would  like  to  be  my  serf,  Yvonne  ?  "  he  de- 
manded, putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  he 
could  feel  her  tremble. 

"  Surely,  surely,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  you  shall — some  day  you  shall,  I  swear  it." 

A  gust  of  hot  passion  swept  over  him.  She  was  not 
pretty,  this  peasant  wench,  but  she  had  a  noble  figure, 


A  Beardless  Chevalier  65 

and  the  comfort  of  a  woman's  caress  in  that  hour  of 
abasement  appealed  with  an  irresistible  sweetness  to 
his  wounded  spirit.  Something,  however,  checked  his 
arm  that  was  about  to  slip  round  her — as  if  Yvonne 
herself  by  a  mysterious  power  paralysed  his  passion. 
Yet  she  made  no  effort  to  escape,  and  under  his  hand 
on  her  plump  shoulder  he  could  feel  that  she,  too,  was 
in  the  grip  of  strong  emotion. 

His  arm  dropped  to  his  side. 

"  Monseigneur  will  go  to  the  wise  soothsayer,"  she 
said  very  quietly,  "  for  she  can  help  him  better  than 
any  peasant  wench." 

And  then  Andre  laughed.  The  gaiety  of  yesterday 
had  suddenly  remastered  him.  He  forgot  the  shamed 
sword,  the  Chevalier,  and  that  infernal  court  with  its 
smoking  torches.  Denise  should  yet  be  his,  and  this 
strange  girl  his  serf. 

"  Why,  then,  I  will  seek  this  wise  woman,"  he  an- 
swered lightly,  "before  I  go  to  the  war.  I  promise, 
Yvonne. ' ' 

And  so  he  left  her  to  her  prayers  at  the  tomb  of  the 
child  who  should  have  been  her  lord.  But  she  did  not 
pray  very  long.  Indeed,  had  Andre  cared  he  might 
have  seen  her  wrapped  in  her  coarse  cloak  walking 
swiftly  towards  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  great  cha1- 
teau,  and  she  sang  as  she  had  sung  on  the  back  of  her 
spotted  cow. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  WISE  WOMAN  OP  "  THE  COCK  WITH  THE  SPURS 
OF  GOLD" 

IT  was  a  strangely  superstitious  age  this  age  of 
Louis  XV.,  strangely  superstitious  and  strangely 
enlightened.  On  the  one  side  the  illuminated  philo- 
sophers of  the  rising  school  of  Voltaire,  on  the  other  a 
society  ready  to  be  gulled  by  every  charlatan,  quack, 
or  sorceress  clever  enough  to  exploit  the  depths  of 
human  credulity.  You  shall  read  in  the  fascinating 
memoirs  of  that  century  how  the  male  and  female  ad- 
venturers tricked  to  their  immense  profit  that  polished, 
gallant,  cynical,  and  light-hearted  noblesse  which  made 
the  glory  of  the  Court.  And  Andre  was  a  true  child 
of  his  age.  Yvonne's  mystifying  remarks  had  stirred 
all  the  superstition  and  awe  lurking  behind  his  hollow 
homage  to  the  established  religion,  and  human  curiosity 
whetted  this  stimulus  of  superstition.  He  scented,  in 
fact,  an  agreeable  adventure  in  a  visit  to  this  mysterious 
witch. 

But  first  he  consulted  his  friend  Henri,  Cornte  de  St. 
Ben6it,  like  himself  a  Chevau-le'ger  de  la  Garde,  and 

66 


The  Wise  Woman  67 

like  himself  notorious  for  his  skill  with  the  sword  and 
for  his  countless  gallantries.  Was  it  not  St.  Ben6it  who 
had  taken  his  place  in  rousing  the  jealousy  of  the 
Comte  des  Forges  and  who  had  also  been  obliged  to 
give  the  hot-headed  husband  the  quietus  of  a  flesh- 
wound  ? 

Henri  of  course  knew  all  about  the  wise  woman. 
Was  she  not  the  talk  of  the  bel  monde  ? 

"She  won't  see  you,"  he  said.  "She  only  prophesies 
to  women,  and  very  few  of  them.  I  tried  to  bring  her 
to  book,  but  her  girl,  a  devilish  saucy  grisette  with  a 
roving  eye  and  a  skittish  pout,  shut  the  door  in  my 
face,  by  Madame's  orders,  if  you  please." 

"And  you  went  away  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  I  put  my  knee  against  the  door  and 
said  that  as  I  could  n't  pay  Madame  I  must  pay  her. 
Not  the  first  time  the  hussy  has  been  kissed,  and  it 
won't  be  the  last.  You,  too,  will  discover  the  jade 
has  n't  the  dislike  to  men  that  her  mistress  has." 

"  What  will  you  wager  she  will  not  see  me — the 
mistress  ? ' ' 

"A  kiss  from  my  Diane  of  the  ballet.  I  '11  bet,  too, 
Madame  is  not  at  home  at  all,  for  she  comes  and  goes 
like  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  But  if  you  do  see  her  she  '11 
tell  you  something  cursedly  disagreeable.  She  fright- 
ened the  poor  Des  Forges,  your  Comtesse  and  mine, 
into  hysterics,  and,"  his  voice  dropped,  "she  warned 
the  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux  she  had  only  three  weeks 
to  live — and  it  was  all  the  poor  thing  had.  Don't  go 


68  No.  101 

to  her,  my  dear  Andre;  she  '11  see  3^011  in  her  crystal 
globe,  face  upwards  in  a  heap  of  dead  with  an  Knglish 
sword  in  your  guts. ' ' 

Needless  to  say,  perhaps,  that  afternoon  saw  Andr£ 
at  the  tavern  called ' '  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold, ' ' 
which,  save  for  a  brand-new  sign-board,  had  all  the 
appearance  of  a  farmhouse  hastily  turned  into  an  inn. 
Buried  in  the  woods  between  Paris  and  Versailles  it 
was  exactly  suited  for  a  rendezvous  to  which  all  might 
repair  without  the  world  being  any  the  wiser.  Andre 
had  carefully  disguised  himself,  and  as  he  rapped  on 
the  door  his  appearance  suggested  rather  the  comfort- 
able bourgeois  than  the  noble  Capitaine-L,ieutenant  des 
Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde.  To  his  surprise  he  won 
his  wager  with  greater  ease  than  he  had  dreamed. 

The  saucy  grisette,  whose  demure  demeanour  could 
not  conceal  the  shifty  falseness  of  her  roving  eyes,  took 
to  her  mistress  the  name  he  gave,  the  ' '  Sieur  de  Cou- 
tances,"  and  then,  to  his  joy,  speedily  ushered  him  with 
no  little  ogling  into  an  empty,  low-beamed  parlour, 
which  was  simply  the  apartment  of  a  woman  who 
could  indulge  her  love  of  luxury.  Of  the  sorceress 
trade  there  were  no  traces  unless  you  counted  for  such 
an  enormous  black  cat  with  the  most  ferocious  whiskers, 
who  arched  his  back  on  Andre's  entrance  and  glared 
at  him  with  diabolical  yellow  eyes — a  cat  to  make  the 
flesh  creep  and  bristle  as  did  his  whiskers. 

' '  Welcome,  Vicomte,  welcome  ! ' ' 

Andr£  found  himself  staring  in  the  dim  light  with 


The  Wise  Woman  69 

intense  surprise,  not  at  a  wizened  hag,  but  at  a  young 
woman  scarcely  more  than  five-and-tvventy,  dressed  in 
flowing  coal-black  draperies  which  made  her  wealth  of 
fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  dazzling  skin  all  the  more 
startling.  Her  dress  was  wide  open  at  the  throat  and 
on  her  breast  flashed  an  exquisite  diamond  cross.  And 
what  a  figure!  Those  flowing  draperies,  that  step  for- 
ward revealed  a  woman  perfectly  shaped  in  every  limb. 
It  was  therefore  a  shame  that  above  her  upper  lip  there 
was  the  suggestion  of  a  dark  moustache,  though  it 
added  in  the  most  extraordinary  way  to  the  weird  effect 
of  her  appearance. 

"Welcome,  Vicomte,  welcome!"  she  repeated,  but 
she  offered  him  no  salute  save  a  wave  of  her  finely 
shaped  hand  towards  a  chair. 

"  I  am  not  a  vicomte,"  Andre"  answered  doggedly. 

' '  Then  when  did  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  lose  his 
rank?  "  she  asked  quickly,  and  laughed  at  his  obvious 
embarrassment.  "Ah,  Vicomte,  if  I  were  not  able  to 
divine  who  my  visitors  were  I  should  not  have  a  trinket 
like  this — "  she  patted  her  diamond  cross,  stooped  and 
lifted  the  huge  cat  and  stroked  it  gently  with  her  chin. 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you?  "  she  demanded,  com- 
ing closer. 

"  My  faith,  but  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  The 
faint  perfume  of  her  person  was  puzzling  him  sorely. 
But  in  truth  he  was  familiar  with  the  perfume  of  so 
many  women  that  it  was  hopeless  to  expect  an  answer 
to  the  question. 


70  No.  101 

"  Nor  do  I,"  the  woman  answered,  still  laughing, 
and  her  laugh  was  like  the  purr  of  her  cat.  "In  any 
case,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  must  wait.  A  lady  is 
already  here  to  see  me.  No,  it  is  not  necessary  to 
retire.  In  spite  of  that  I  have  said,  you  doubt  my 
powers;  therefore  you  shall  listen  while  she  and  I 
talk." 

She  pointed  to  a  large  screen  and  Andre,  now  burn- 
ing with  curiosity,  gladly  seated  himself  behind  it. 
The  woman  with  the  cat  still  in  her  arms  promptly 
flung  herself  on  to  a  long  sofa  and  rang  her  hand- 
bell. 

"Introduce  Madame,"  she  said  to  the  girl,  "  Ma- 
dame'sy£//<?  de  chambre  must  wait  without." 

The  visitor,  Andre*  decided,  was  young.  Her  trim 
figure,  the  coquettish  pose  of  her  head,  the  graceful 
dignity  of  her  carriage  filled  him  with  the  liveliest  re- 
gret that  he  could  not  see  her  face,  which  was  thickly 
veiled.  She  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  in  the  centre  of 
the  room — for  the  woman  on  the  sofa  never  stirred. 
Clearly  she,  too,  had  expected  something  very  different. 

"Your  name,  Madame?"  asked  the  sorceress 
abruptly. 

"Mademoiselle,  if  it  please  you,"  the  visitor  cor- 
rected, "  Mademoiselle  I^ucie  Marie  Villefranche." 

Andr6  was  listening  now  with  all  his  ears.  Where 
before  had  he  heard  that  crisp,  alluring  voice  ? 

"Bien,  Madame." 

"  Mademoiselle — "  persisted  the  visitor,  nettled. 


The  Wise  Woman  71 

"Then  why  does  Mademoiselle  wear  a  wedding- 
ring?" 

The  visitor  made  an  impatient  movement,  bit  her  lip, 
aud  petulantly  drew  off  her  glove.  On  the  hand  she 
triumphantly  held  out  there  was  no  sign  of  a  wedding- 
ring. 

"It  is  in  Madame' s  pocket,"  the  sorceress  said 
calmly.  "  But  it  is  of  as  little  importance  as  is 
Madame' s  husband  to  her." 

The  visitor  checked  an  indignant  reply  and  simply 
glared  through  her  veil. 

Excellent  fun,  thought  Andre,  when  you  set  one 
woman  against  another — and  such  women! 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  the  sorceress  proceeded,  and 
she  inspected  it  with  the  greatest  care,  the  owner 
watching  her  with  ill-concealed  anxiety.  "  I  see  a 
crown  in  the  palm  which  I  cannot  understand,"  she 
said  slowly,  a  "  crown  reversed.  A  beautiful  hand," 
she  murmured,  "  beautiful  and  strong.  The  hand  of 
a  morceau  de  rot." 

Madame  Villefranche  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  almost  of 
triumph.  "Morceau  de  roi"  she  repeated.  "Morceau 
de  rot.  That  is  strange.  You  have  heard  perhaps  that 
long  ago  another  soothsayer  also  said  the  same." 

"  I  must  consult  the  orb,"  the  other  replied  as  if  she 
did  not  hear,  and  she  gazed  long  and  silently  at  the 
crystal  circle  which  she  produced  from  its  resting-place 
beside  the  diamond  cross.  ' '  Yes,  it  is  quite  clear 
now." 


72  No.  101 

"  What  do  you  see?  "  was  the  eager  question. 

"A  great  gallery — it  is  I  think  the  Salon  d'Hercule 
at  Versailles — there  are  many  men  and  women  in  it, 
finely  dressed — I  see  a  lady  in  a  rose-coloured  satin  in 
their  centre — it  is  her  favourite  colour — they  pay  court 
to  her " 

"Ah!"  Madame  Villefranche  had  stood  up.  Her 
hand  went  involuntarily  to  her  heart. 

"  One  enters  with  his  hat  on  " — the  sorceress  jerked 
out  slowly — "he  keeps  it  on — he  advances  as  they  bow 
— he  takes  his  hat  off — it  is  the  King — he  kisses  the 
hand  of  the  woman  in  rose-coloured  satin  —  she 
salutes " 

"Man  Dieu ! "  Madame  Villefranche  suddenly 
kneeled  beside  her.  Andre,  as  excited  as  she  was, 
crawled  forward  so  as  not  to  lose  a  word. 

"I  see  her  again" — the  woman  proceeded  after  a 
pause — "  she  gives  orders  to  ministers — she  makes 
generals — she  tramples  on  all  who  oppose  her — the 
King  is  her  slave — ah  !  the  crystal  is  disturbed — no — 
no — there  is  much  unhappiness — the  land  is  poor — 
there  are  jealousies,  strifes,  quarrels,  wars — starving 
men  and  women  cry  out  against  the  King  and  his  mis- 
tress— but  the  woman  in  the  rose-coloured  satin  still 
wears  her  jewels — she  does  not  hear  them.  What  is 
this  ? — yes,  it  is — a  hearse  leaving  Versailles  for  Paris 
— the  King  looks  out  of  the  window  above  on  to  the 
Place  d'Armes — he  shrugs  his  shoulders — I  do  not  see 
the  woman  in  the  rose-coloured  satin  any  more — I 


The  Wise  Woman  73 

think  surely  she  is  dead  and  no  one  cares — ah  !  the 
crystal  has  become  dim."  She  put  it  down  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

Dead  silence,  but  Andr6  could  hear  the  deep-drawn 
breaths  of  Madame  Villefranche.  Her  hands  were 
twisted  in  supreme  emotion. 

"And  the  face — the  face  of  the  woman,  did  you  see 
that  ?  ' '  she  asked  with  dry  lips. 

The  sorceress  opened  her  eyes.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said 
slowly.  "It  is  the  face  of  Madame  d'Etiolles,  born 
Jeanne  Antoinette  Poisson — your  face,  Madame,"  she 
added  as  she  flung  her  visitor's  veil  swiftly  back.  The 
cat  leaped  from  her  arms.  Madame  Villefranche 
sprang  to  her  feet ;  the  two  women  were  confronting 
each  other,  each  drawn  to  her  full  height. 

Andre"  too  had  risen.  Ha!  At  last  he  understood. 
The  visitor  was  no  other  than  the  fair  huntress  of  the 
woods  who  had  driven  to  see  the  King,  in  an  azure 
phaeton,  herself  clad  in  rose-coloured  satin. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Madame  d'Etiolles,  stretching 
her  arms.  "Ah  !  "  Then  she  turned  on  the  sorceress 
furiously.  "  My  woman  has  betrayed  me,"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  no,  Madame" — she  curtsied  as  to  a  queen — 
' '  not  your  woman  but  the  crystal  and  yourself. ' ' 

The  other  threw  up  her  head  incredulously.  "If 
you  reveal,"  she  said  harshly,  "that  I  have  visited 
you ' ' 

"  I  never  reveal  who  my  visitors  are,"  was  the  quiet 
answer,  "they  always  reveal  themselves."  She  sat 


74  No.  101 

down  indolently,  but  there  was  almost  insolent  provo- 
cation in  the  simple  grace  of  the  movement. 

Madame  d'  Etiolles  turned  away.  ' '  And  your  pay  ? ' ' 
she  demanded  sharply. 

"As  Madame  pleases,"  came  the  indifferent  answer 
from  the  sofa. 

The  visitor  placed  five  pieces  on  the  table,  replaced 
her  veil,  and  walked  towards  the  door.  "Adieu  !  "  she 
said  over  her  shoulder,  but  Andre  could  see  she  stepped 
as  one  intoxicated  by  a  sublime  vision. 

"And  will  Madame  remember  the  wise  woman,"  the 
sorceress  pleaded  in  her  soft  voice,  ' '  if  the  crystal  be 
found  to  speak  the  truth  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes";  she  had  wheeled  sharply,  a  merciless  freez- 
ing vengeance  glistened  in  her  eyes  and  steeled  her 
voice.  "  I  will  have  you  burned  for  an  insolent  witch. 
I  promise  not  to  forget." 

"  My  thanks,  Madame."  She  rang  the  hand-bell, 
and  Madame  was  unceremoniously  ushered  out.  The 
sorceress  sat  reflecting  and  then  placed  the  crystal  in 
her  bosom  and  took  away  the  screen. 

"It  is  the  turn  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  she  re- 
marked pleasantly.  "It  is  a  pity  I  did  not  ask  the 
lady  to  stay  and  hear." 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  Andre  answered.  "I  am 
satisfied,  and  so  was  she." 

"  Monsieur  is  not  as  Madame,"  the  sorceress  said, 
fixing  a  penetrating  gaze  on  him,  "he  fears  his 
fate." 


The  Wise  Woman  75 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  My  fate  lies  in 
my  sword  and  my  head.  I  am  ready  to  face  it  without 
fear  or  reproach  when  and  as  it  comes.  But  I  will  not 
know  beforehand,  not  even  for  a  crown  reversed." 

For  a  brief  second  her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  ap- 
proval, and  indeed  he  looked  very  handsome  and  noble 
at  that  moment. 

"  But  Monsieur  will  permit  me,"  she  said  gently, 
and  before  he  could  refuse  she  had  taken  his  hand,  "  I 
will  not  speak  unless  he  wishes." 

While  she  studied  it  he  studied  her.  What  a  subtle 
pathos  seemed  to  lie  in  those  blue  eyes,  those  smiling 
lips,  that  dainty  head  almost  touching  him,  a  pathos 
like  her  perfume  ascending  into  the  brain.  And  how 
enchanting  was  that  diamond  cross  rising  and  falling 
on  that  dazzling  breast. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  for  she  had  dropped  his 
hand  with  a  faint  sigh,  and  sat  staring  mysteriously  at 
something  far  away. 

"  I  am  forbidden  to  speak,"  she  answered,  averting 
her  eyes,  and  she  picked  up  her  cat,  and  walked  away. 

"  You  shall  tell  me,"  Andre  said  impetuously. 

But  she  only  laughed  over  the  cat's  body,  stroking 
it  softly  with  her  chin  till  its  purr  echoed  through  the 
room. 

"  Confess,  confess,"  he  said,  "  I  z^7/know." 

".The  hand  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  she  answered, 
smiling  mischievously,  "  is  full  of  interesting  revela- 
tions— dreams  which  come  and  go — but  there  is  one 


76  No.  101 

dream  that  is  always  there — the  dream  of  love.  Wo- 
men," she  added,  "  women,  women  everywhere  in 
Monsieur's  life;  as  in  the  years  that  were  past,  so  in 
the  years  to  come.  I/et  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  be  on 
his  guard  against  all  women — and  against  one  woman 
in  particular " 

Andre  failed  to  suppress  an  exclamation.  Had  this 
beautiful  witch  divined  that  secret  too  ? 

"  Her  name,"  she  paused  to  bury  her  face  in  the 
cat's  fur,  "is — Yvonne — Yvonne,"  she  repeated,  "of 
the  Spotless  Ankles." 

"  Yvonne  !  "  he  laughed  heartily. 

"  Yes,  Yvonne.  Sometimes  there  is  more  in  a  peas- 
ant girl  to  tempt  and  ruin  than  in  a  Comtesse  des 
Forges,  or  a  marquise — "  it  was  her  turn  to  laugh. 
"Ah!  the  Vicomte  is  a  gallant  and  reckless  lover.  He 
thinks  as  the  noblesse  think,  that  women  are  necessary 
to  him.  But  it  is  not  so.  It  is  he  who  is  necessary 
to  them." 

"And  your  fee  for  the  advice,  mistress?" 

She  flung  the  five  gold  pieces  of  Madame  d'Etiolles 
into  a  drawer.  "Madame  has  paid  for  both,"  she  said. 
"But  if  the  Vicomte  de  N6rac  will  offer  something  of 
his  own,  I  will  accept — a  kiss,"  and  she  looked  him 
daringly  in  the  face. 

The  hall  of  the  Chateau  de  Beau  Sejour  swept  in 
a  vision  before  him.  Dieu  Le  Vengeur  seemed  to  be 
written  in  a  scroll  of  fire  round  the  cat's  ruff. 

"  I  understand,"  she  added  with  a  contemptuous 


The  Wise  Woman  77 

shrug  of  her  shoulders,  "  though  I  am  not  a  marquise 
or  a  comtesse." 

"You  shall  have  it,"  he  blurted  out  with  husky 
petulance. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  diamond  cross — they  looked 
at  each  other — the  woman  melted  into  a  defiant 
reverence. 

"The  horse  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  she  com- 
manded quickly  to  the  girl  who  had  appeared  as  if  by 
magic.  "  Good-  day,  sir.  You  can  pay  the  fee  to — 
Yvonne." 

And  here  he  was  alone  with  the  shifty-eyed  fille  de 
chambre,  who  plainly  gave  him  an  invitation  to  mis- 
take her  for  Yvonne. 

"Confound  you,  what  do  you  wait  for?  "  Andre  said 
irritably.  "Fetch  the  horse  at  once  if  you  don't  want 
to  taste  a  rogue's  fare  with  your  mistress  in  prison." 

And  as  he  rode  through  the  woods  it  was  little  com- 
fort to  remember  that  he  had  won  his  wager  with 
Henri,  Comte  de  St.  Bendit. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  KING'S  HANDKERCHIEF 

IN  December  the  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux,  the 
maitresse  en  titre  of  the  King  of  France,  had  died,  some 
said  of  poison,  some  of  a  broken  heart  at  her  treat- 
ment at  Metz  when  she  had  been  driven  by  her  enemies 
from  the  sick  King's  bedside  and  from  the  Court,  a  few 
because  she  had  caught  a  chill  and  even  maitresses  en 
titre  were  mortal.  Would  Louis  select  another  lady 
to  take  her  place  ?  Who  would  she  be  ?  That  was  the 
question.  France  was  at  war — that  dreary  war  called 
in  the  books  the  "  War  of  the  Austrian  Succession" — 
and  this  spring — 1745 — under  the  Marechal  de  Saxe, 
(the  son  of  a  king  and  Aurora  von  Konigsmarck,  him- 
self the  idol  of  women  of  quality  as  he  had  been  the  idol 
of  Adrienne  Lecouvreur)  great  efforts  were  to  be  made 
to  drive  from  the  L,ow  Countries  the  red-coated  Eng- 
lish and  white-coated  Austrians,  to  win  for  the  Fleurs- 
de-L,is  the  boundaries  that,  since  the  days  of  Henri  IV. , 
God,  nature,  and  French  genius  had  destined  to  be 
French.  Was  not  Louis,  Le  Bien  Aime,  himself  going 
to  the  campaign  with  the  flower  of  his  nobility  and 

78 


The  King's  Handkerchief  79 

with  his  son  and  heir  ?  Yes,  surely  great  things  would 
be  accomplished  before  the  September  winds  shook  the 
apples  off  the  trees  in  the  orchards  of  Normandy  or 
they  trod  the  wine- vats  on  the  sun -clad  slopes  of  Gas- 
cony.  Paris  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement ;  the  Court 
was  still  en  J£te  for  the  marriage  of  Monsieur  le 
Dauphin  to  a  Saxon  princess.  But  would  there  be  a 
successor  to  the  hapless  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux? 
That  was  the  only  question  about  which  the  Paris  that 
counted  really  cared. 

Andre  of  course  went  to  tell  St.  Ben6it  how  he  had 
won  his  bet,  and  he  found  him  gossiping  in  the  salon 
of  the  Comtesse  des  Forges. 

"  The  King  has  already  chosen,"  Madame  remarked, 
fanning  herself  placidly.  "  But  Monseigneur  the  Arch- 
bishop and  the  royal  confessor  are  still  able  to  work  on 
his  remorse,  so  for  the  present  His  Majesty  affects  to 
play  at  being  a  devot." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  St.  Ben&it  retorted.  "The 
King  will  be  a  divot  for  one  day  in  the  week  and  a  lover 
for  the  other  six,  as  all  kings  of  France  and  their  sub- 
jects, too,  ought  to  be.  Naturally  he  does  not  wish  to 
shock  Madame  la  Dauphine,  but  wait  till  the  cam- 
paign is  over;  Mars  will  give  way  to  Venus,  and  then 
we  shall  have  one  of  the  De  Nesles  back  again." 

Whereat  Madame  lifted  her  heavy-lidded  eyes,  of 
which  she  was  so  proud,  and  said  contemptuously, 
"Pooh!" 

14 1  have  won  the  wager,"  Andre*  interposed,  "  and  I 


8o  No.  101 

will  undertake  to  win  another.  I  will  bet  that  it  will 
not  be  a  De  Nesles,  but  a  bourgeoise  that  the  King 
will  select. ' ' 

"  Impossible  !  "  both  St.  Ben6it  and  Madame  cried, 
genuinely  shocked.  "A  bourgeoise  at  Versailles!  It 
would  be  a  scandal,  unheard  of,  monstrous,  not  to  be 
tolerated." 

But  Andr6  only  smiled,  and  press  him  as  they  might 
he  refused  to  say  more. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Comtesse,  "if  you  will  go  to-night, 
my  dear  De  Nerac,  to  the  ball  at  the  H6tel-de-Ville 
you  will  learn  whether  I  am  not  right."  And  after 
Andre  had  taken  his  leave  she  turned  to  St.  Ben6it, 
with  genuine  concern.  "England,"  she  said,  "has 
demoralised  our  dear  friend.  The  English  have  made 
him  incredibly  vulgar.  As  if  the  King  of  France 
would  so  far  forget  himself  or  be  so  impertinent  to  us 
as  to  introduce  into  our  Versailles  a  bourgeoise.  There 
would  be  a  revolution." 

"I  can  see  you,  Madame,"  he  answered,  "giving 
the  lady  her  footstool."  He  kneeled  mockingly  at  her 
feet.  "  God  bless  my  soul!  you  might  as  well  expect 
me  to  kiss  the  hand  of  your  j6//<?  de  chambre.  Andre 
was  joking;  he  knows  if  the  King  were  to  bring  her  to 
Court  she  would  not  stay  a  week. ' ' 

"A  week!"  Madame  threw  up  her  noble  head. 
"  Not  twenty-four  hours." 

But  Andre,  who  had  heard  the  crystal's  story,  had 
his  good  reasons.  Already  fertile  schemes  were  fer- 


The  King's  Handkerchief  81 

meriting  in  his  brain;  his  ambition,  too,  was  daily  soar- 
ing upwards,  and  he  dimly  guessed  that  in  this  strange 
circling  of  Fortune's  wheel  the  opportunity  for  which 
he  thirsted  would  at  last  come.  And  so  like  the  rest 
of  the  gay  world  he  went  that  night  to  the  grand  ball 
given  by  the  municipality  of  Paris  at  the  H6tel-de-Ville 
in  honour  of  the  marriage  of  the  Dauphin;  for  the  King 
had  promised  to  be  present,  and  it  was  to  be  one  of  those 
rare  occasions  when  the  noblesse  had  consented  to  rub 
shoulders  with  the  middle  class  in  doing  honour  to  the 
royal  bride  and  bridegroom.  Coming  events  were  in 
the  air.  Andre  felt,  though  why  he  could  not  say,  that 
to-night  would  somehow  prove  a  decisive  turning-point 
in  the  history  of  himself  and  of  France. 

For  the  purpose  of  dancing,  the  court  of  the  H6tel- 
de-Ville  had  been  converted  into  a  ballroom,  superbly 
festooned  and  illuminated,  and  the  crowd  that  had 
gathered  was  immense.  Nobles  of  the  realm,  great 
ladies,  peers,  peeresses,  and  the  Court  here  jostled  in 
the  wildest  confusion  with  the  gentlemen  of  the  robe, 
with  aldermen,  shopkeepers,  and  even  flower  girls  and 
the  danseuses  of  the  royal  ballet.  The  company  was 
supposed  to  be  masked,  but  many  had  already  dis- 
carded the  flimsy  covering;  and  for  all  who  still  wore  it 
the  disguise  was  the  merest  affectation.  Most  of  the 
ladies  of  the  middle  class  had  donned  fancy  attire,  but 
the  noblesse  for  the  most  part  showed  their  quality  by 
refusing  to  imitate  the  canaille.  Andre  of  course  was 
content  with  his  uniform  of  the  Chevau-le"gers  de  la 

6 


82  No.  101 

Garde,  that  beautiful  and  famous  livery  of  scarlet 
with  white  facings,  silver  buttons,  spurs  of  gold,  and 
hat  with  white  plumes  which  in  itself  conferred  an  en- 
viable distinction,  and  about  his  neck,  more  proudly 
still,  he  carried  that  Croix  de  St.  Louis,  whose  pos- 
session sufficed  to  make  any  soldier  happy. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  stood  gazing  at  the  brilliant 
spectacle  presented  by  the  moving  throng, — one  vast 
arena  of  human  beings  in  which  the  uniforms,  the  stars 
and  ribbons,  the  jewels,  the  bright  eyes,  and  the  fair 
shoulders  were  blended  into  a  magic  and  inspiring 
panorama,  over  which  floated  the  tender  music  of  harp, 
violin,  and  flute.  And  as  he  moved  slowly  forward 
kissing  noble  hands,  receiving  gentle  congratulations, 
or  looking  into  eyes  to  which  in  past  days  he  had 
whispered  devotion  in  the  CEDil  de  Bceuf  or  beneath  the 
balmy  fragrance  of  a  f£te  champ£tre  at  Rambouillet  his 
ambition  soared  still  higher.  But  dance  he  would  not; 
he  had  come  to  watch,  to  teach,  and  to  learn.  The 
Chevalier  to  his  joy  was  not  here;  he  had  been  de- 
spatched, Andre  discovered  with  grim  satisfaction,  on 
special  business  of  the  King.  But  yonder  was  Denise, 
holding  a  miniature  court.  As  Andre  edged  his  way 
towards  her,  her  glance  fell  on  the  familiar  uniform, 
and  it  plainly  said:  "  Here  at  least  let  us  forget  the 
past — I  have  forgiven  you — come  let  us  be  friends  as 
we  were  before."  And  Andre  replied  to  her  graceful 
reverence  with  his  stiffest  bow,  as  he  had  deliberately 
come  to  do,  and  then  moved  slowly  off,  but  not  before 


The  King's  Handkerchief  83 

he  had  marked  with  a  lover's  joy  the  pained  surprise 
in  Denise's  eyes,  the  angry  flush  that  coloured  her 
cheek.  But  the  lesson  must  be  completed.  A  partner 
must  be  found  and  at  once.  He  paused — looked  about 
him — started. 

"You,  Madame!"  he  ejaculated,  checking  his  as- 
tonishment, for  Denise  was  watching  him. 

"I,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  was  the  serene  reply. 
"  This  is  more  fun  than  spelling  the  truth  from  a 
crystal,"  and  she  laughed  wickedly. 

Yes,  it  was  indeed  the  wise  woman  from  "  The  Cock 
with  the  Spurs  of  Gold,"  wearing  her  diamond  cross 
and  dressed  in  adorably  pale  blue  satin,  just  such  a 
colour  as  her  eyes  covered  by  the  pale  blue  mask. 
Strangest  of  all,  Andre  felt  at  that  moment  there  was 
not  a  woman  in  all  this  throng  who  carried  herself 
with  more  of  the  true  air  of  the  noblesse  than  did  this 
young  sorceress,  who  plied  a  charlatan's  trade  for  hire. 

"  The  Vicomte  looks  to-night  as  the  Vicomte  de 
Nerac  should,"  she  remarked  quietly.  "  But  is  it  my 
presence  here  or  is  it  my  perfume  that  perplexes  you  ?  " 

And  Andre  started  again  at  her  unerring  divination. 

"  Surely  it  is  very  simple,"  she  proceeded.  Recall, 
if  you  please,  a  supper  party  in  London — the  perfume 
was  there  then — now  it  is  here.  That  is  all." 

"  What  ?  "  He  stopped  in  sheer  amazement.  "  You 
are  that — that  woman  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  The  same,  only  a  trifle  disguised.  In 
London  I  was  dark,  in  Paris  I  am  fair,  because,"  she 


84  No.  101 

shrugged  her  shoulders,  "  I  love  change  and  I  hate 
being  recognised  unless  I  choose.  You  will  not  betray 
my  secret,  will  you  ?  ' ' 

' '  No.     But  why  are  you  in  Paris  ? ' ' 

"  Women  like  myself,"  she  answered  cynically,  "are 
always  dying  of  ennui,  and  I  was  born  a  Parisienne. 
Can  a  Parisienne  live  without  Paris  ?  Well,  I  cannot. 
London,  mon  Dieu  !  Those  suffocating  English  !  They 
make  love  as  they  eat  beef  and  drink  beer.  Their  wo- 
men are  prudes,  their  men  heavy  as  bull-dogs  made  of 
lead.  London  is  a  ville  de  province — no  wit,  no  ideas, 
no  life.  Here,"  she  pointed  with  her  fan,  "it  is  far 
different.  Where  will  you  find  the  like  of  that  for  gai- 
ety of  heart,  and  sparkle  of  the  soul?  It  is  the  city  of 
breeding,  of  philosophers,  of  poets,  of  chivalry,  and  of 
lovers.  Why,  that  grisette  over  there  can  be  more 
spirituette  than  an  Englishman  of  genius.  And  when 
even  the  lovers  who  make  love  with  ardour  and  in 
couplets  that  sing  of  themselves  become  annoying  I  go 
elsewhere. ' ' 

Andre  listened  with  a  puzzled  delight.  It  was  not 
the  perfume — it  was  the  mystery  that  enveloped  her 
which  kept  him  silent.  Something  in  her  voice,  her 
manner,  reminded  him  in  the  most  tantalising  way  of 
somebody  else  and  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not 
think  who  that  somebody  was. 

"  No,"  she  replied  to  his  invitation,  "  I  will  not  dis- 
grace you  by  dancing — you  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  and 
I — "  she  smiled.  "  Besides  you  have  seen  me  dance 


The  King's  Handkerchief  85 

in  the  only  kind  of  dancing  that  I  care  about.  But 
see,"  she  added,  dropping  her  voice,  "do  you  not 
recognise  a  friend,  perhaps  a  partner?  Is  she  not 
charming — conquering  and  to  conquer?  " 

"  Name  of  a  dog  !  "  he  ejaculated. 

Away  at  the  other  end  of  the  ballroom  was  a  raised 
dais  on  which  was  gathered  a  bevy  of  the  fairest  of  the 
bourgeoisie.  One  of  them,  escorted  by  three  or  four 
gentlemen,  was  descending  the  stairs  into  the  throng — 
a  woman  in  the  guise  of  Diana,  clad  in  the  airiest, 
gauziest,  purest  white,  with  a  silver  bow  in  her  hand 
and  a  quiver  on  her  shoulder  and  a  jewelled  half-moon 
in  her  powdered  hair.  It  was — yes,  it  was — the  fair 
huntress  of  the  woods  of  Versailles,  to-night  a  matchless 
spectacle  of  majestic  beauty  which  rippled  over  into 
the  gayest,  most  provocative  coquetry  imaginable — 
Juno  and  Venus  and  Diana  in  one  and  defying  you  to 
say  which  was  the  more  divine.  And  that  cunningly 
arranged  robe  of  glittering  white,  with  its  artful  jewels 
to  suggest  every  curve  and  line,  was  just  what  witchery 
would  have  chosen  to  be  the  foil  to  the  laughter  of  her 
eyes  and  the  subtle  sheen  of  her  skin.  What  other 
woman  could  have  worn  it?  But  for  the  one  who 
dared,  it  was  the  homage  of  a  woman's  art  to  the 
triumph  of  nature's  womanhood. 

Andre  watched  her  with  absorbing  interest.  Fate 
had  ordained  that  this  woman's  ambitions  should  be 
bound  up  with  his.  But  how  ?  how  ? 

"  She  has  a  mind,"  his  companion  was  saying,  "  as 


86  No.  101 

well  as  incomparable  beauty.  That  Abbe  at  her  elbow 
is  Monsieur  de  Bernis,  a  poverty-stricken  poet  who 
writes  her  love-letters  for  her,  whom  she  will  make  great 
some  day,  perhaps,  and  if  Monsieur  de  Voltaire  cared 
as  much  for  balls  as  for  the  muses,  he,  too,  would  be 
snarling  his  honeyed  venom  in  her  ear.  She  can  act 
and  dance  and  sing.  She  will  not  always  be  Madame 
d'Ktiolles." 

The  plans  of  years  were  sweeping  through  Andre's 
brain.  What  if  the  crystal — the  thought  was  cut  short 
by  a  stately  flourish  of  trumpets  and  the  loud  hum  of 
applause. 

"  See,"  the  sorceress  whispered,  "  the  King  has 
arrived." 

Men  and  women  pressed  to  the  entrance  and  then  fell 
back — on  all  sides  the  lowliest  reverences.  The  King, 
the  master  of  France,  had  entered  and  was  facing  the 
crowd.  And  a  truly  royal  figure  he  made  in  his  splen- 
did dress,  for  I^ouis  XV.  knew  how  to  present  himself 
as  a  worthy  grandson  of  the  Sun  God  who  had  created 
Versailles  and  made  monarchy  in  Europe  sublime: 
the  pose  of  his  handsome  head,  the  dignity  of  his  car- 
riage, the  matchless  air  of  command  that  conveyed  an 
air  of  majesty  such  as  could  only  belong  to  one  whose 
wish  since  boyhood  was  law,  whose  words  were  orders, 
whose  will  was  the  inspiration  of  a  nation.  And  when 
you  marked  that  faint  mysterious  smile,  those  blue  eyes 
delicately  dull,  was  he  not  just  like  his  grandfather, 
indefinable  and  impenetrable?  What  was  the  real  man 


The  King's  Handkerchief  87 

concealed  behind  that  regal  presence  ?  What  were  the 
real  thoughts  masked  by  that  gaze,  slightly  bored  yet 
caressing  and  sweet  ? 

"  You  do  not  like  the  King  ?  "  Andre"  asked  quickly, 
for  he  had  caught  behind  the  pale  blue  mask  a  swift 
glance  which  sent  a  shiver  down  his  spine. 

"  I  love  him,"  she  answered,  "as  all  we  women  do. 
But  I  was  thinking  of  the  day  when  I  am  to  be  burnt 
for  a  witch." 

It  was  not  the  truth  and  Andre  knew  it.  A  woman's 
jealousy,  he  thought — but  that,  too,  he  knew  it  was  not. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  "  go  you  and  salute  Madame 
d'Etiolles.  Perhaps  you  will  see  something  later  on 
to  amuse  you,"  and  as  if  to  assist  him  she  glided  from 
him  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 

She  had  divined  his  mind  again.  To  speak  with  the 
fair  huntress  was  the  resolve  that  had  mastered  him. 
And  to  his  satisfaction  Madame  no  sooner  recognised 
him  than  she  beckoned  with  her  fan,  smiling  a  shy 
and  intoxicating  welcome. 

Andre  kissed  her  hand,  looking  into  her  eyes,  im- 
perial eyes  in  which  slumbered  imperial  ambitions, 
such  wonderful  eyes,  now  blue,  now  grey,  now  softly 
dark  as  the  violet,  now  glittering  with  the  lightest 
mockery.  "  Un  morceau  de  rot,"  he  muttered.  "  Yes, 
by  God!  a  morceau  de  roi  !  " 

"  Conduct  me  to  yonder  pillar,"  she  said  presently, 
"  we  can  talk  better  there." 

But  that  was  not  her  reason,  for  to  reach  the  pillar 


88  No.  101 

they  must  pass  near  the  King.  Clearly  Madame 
d'Etiolles  was  bent  on  playing  to-night  the  game  of 
the  woods  at  closer  quarters.  Andre  as  he  escorted 
her  now  felt  that  all  eyes,  including  Denise's,  were  on 
him,  but  he  enjoyed  it,  walking  slowly  on  the  giddiest 
tiptoes  of  bravado.  In  front  of  Louis,  he  paused  to 
make  his  reverence.  Madame  paused  too,  and  as  she 
unslung  her  quiver  to  curtsey  with  more  graceful  ease 
Andr6  could  feel  her  tremble.  The  King's  roaming 
gaze  rested  on  them  both.  Andre's  salute  he  acknow- 
ledged with  a  smile,  a  word  or  two  of  kind  greeting, 
but  it  was  on  the  jewels  on  the  breast  of  the  huntress 
that  his  bored  eyes  lingered. 

"  Fair  archeress,"  he  said,  "  surely  the  shafts  you 
loose  are  mortal." 

Madame  d'Etiolles  flushed  with  pleasure,  curtsied 
again,  and  promptly  passed  on,  without  attempting  to 
reply. 

"Mon  Dieu  !  what  a  figure  !  Who  the  devil  is  she  ?  ' ' 
Andre  heard  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Chamber 
mutter. 

"  You  did  that  to  perfection,"  his  partner  whispered 
by  the  pillar.  "You  are  a  man  who  understands  wo- 
men, and  they  are  so  rare.  And  now  we  will  dance  if 
you  please." 

The  sorceress  was  right.  Madame  d'Etiolles  danced 
divinely.  She  had  been  taught  by  the  best  masters, 
but  it  was  only  art  that  she  owed  to  their  science.  The 
rest  was  her  own. 


The  King's  Handkerchief  89 

' '  Will  you  please  do  what  I  tell  you  ? ' '  she  whispered 
as  the  violins  tripped  out  a  stately  minuet.  "And  trust 
me." 

"  Rely  on  me,  Madame,"  he  answered. 

Imperceptibly  Madame  d'Etiolles  in  her  minuet  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  King,  who  began  to  observe 
them  closely.  A  gleam  of  animation  crept  into  his  face 
and  the  courtiers  parted  a  little  to  permit  His  Majesty 
a  better  view  of  this  dainty  dancer.  Covert  whispers, 
knowing  looks,  commenced  to  run  through  the  group. 
Yes,  the  King  was  distinctly  interested.  But  the  fair 
Diana  paid  no  heed.  She  had  only  eyes  for  the  superb 
officer  in  the  scarlet  and  white  of  the  Chevau-legers  de 
la  Garde,  who  was  dancing  as  he  had  never  danced 
before. 

"Throw  your  handkerchief,"  came  the  soft  com- 
mand. 

Completely  puzzled  Andre  obeyed  as  in  a  dream. 
His  partner  caught  the  handkerchief  dexterously  on 
her  fan  and  was  rewarded  by  a  ripple  of  delighted 
laughter  from  the  spectators. 

"A  forfeit,  Vicomte,"  she  said  loud  enough  for  all 
to  hear,  "  I  give  you  tit  for  tat,"  and  she  pressed  her 
own  to  her  lips,  and  tossed  it  back  to  him. 

But  it  was  not  intended  to  reach  him.  The  hunt- 
ress had  calculated  carefully  and  the  handkerchief 
lightly  hit  the  King. 

A  flush  shot  into  Louis's  face;  Madame  coloured 
over  neck  and  shoulders,  she  dropped  her  eyes,  after 


90  No.  101 

one  swift  glance  at  His  Majesty.  Silence,  save  for  the 
dying  lullaby  of  the  music.  Andrews  heart  beat  fast, 
but  not  so  fast  surely  as  was  beating  that  ambitious 
heart  of  the  huntress  prisoned  in  its  jewels  and  white 
satin. 

What  would  the  King  do?  Would  he  resent  or 
accept  the  challenge  ? 

Gentlemen  and  ladies,  nobles  and  bourgeois  alike, 
drew  a  deep  breath.  Ah  !  the  King  had  picked  up  the 
handkerchief — a  second's  pause,  the  pause  in  which  a 
nation's  destiny  may  be  decided — and  then  the  King 
smilingly  threw  the  handkerchief  back,  fair  and  true, 
at  the  audacious  dancer. 

A  pent-up  cry  arose,  hands  were  clapped.  "  The 
King  has  thrown  the  handkerchief,  the  King  has 
thrown  the  handkerchief,"  was  the  ringing  sentence 
on  the  lips  of  all. 

Madame  caught  the  royal  gift  and  melted  into  an 
enchanting  reverence.  One  alluring  side-glance  under 
demure  eyelashes,  a  glance  of  challenge  and  of  submis- 
sion, and  she  had  taken  Andre's  arm  and  glided 
swiftly  back  to  the  dais. 

"The  King  has  thrown  the  handkerchief"  still 
rang  round  the  crowded  room.  But  where  was  the 
dancer?  She  was  gone — yes,  actually  gone  without 
waiting  to  follow  up  her  victory.  And  of  the  expect- 
ant, excited  throng  Andre  alone  recognised  how  unerr- 
ing was  her  tact.  The  huntress  had  accomplished  her 
object.  Henceforward  it  would  not  be  she  who  must 


The  King's  Handkerchief  91 

hunt,  for  defiance  to  royal  hunters  can  be  more  trium- 
phant than  obedience. 

Andre  went  over  to  Madame  des  Forges  and  St. 
Ben6it.  "  You  have  lost  again,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
will  confess  it  now." 

"It  is  infamous,"  replied  the  Comtesse,  with  fierce 
indignation.  "  Infamous!  But  that  grisette  has  not 
won  yet;  the  road  from  the  H6tel-de-Ville  to  Ver- 
sailles is  long  and  difficult !  " 

"Ah,  no,"  Andre  answered;  "not  when  you  can 
travel  in  a  royal  carriage.  You  will  see  what  you  will 
see  when  the  campaign  is  over.  The  bourgeoise  before 
long  will  have  the  heel  of  her  slipper  on  all  our  necks." 

"And  you  believe,"  said  the  Comtesse,  "that  we 
will  permit  her  to  be  forced  on  us.  You  are  as  mad  as 
she  is." 

She  promptly  took  St.  Ben6it's  arm  to  mark  her 
anger  at  the  part  Andr£  had  played.  But  he  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  infinite  amusement.  A 
week  ago,  true  enough,  he  had  scorned  to  lend  himself 
to  such  tactics,  but  to-night  he  was  insensible  to  the 
reproach  that  his  noble  blood  should  have  felt.  For 
he,  too,  was  under  the  spell  of  fate  and  of  a  witchery 
far  more  potent  than  the  drug  of  any  magician.  It 
was  not  in  mortal  man  to  resist  the  sorcery  of  that  fair 
huntress  who  played  on  human  and  royal  passion  as  a 
musician  on  a  stringed  instrument.  But  there  was 
more  than  mere  passion  in  that  dainty  wimple  of  cam- 
bric and  lace:  "La  Petite  fJ&ttoOet"  was  gambling  for 


92  No.  101 

a  great  stake.  What  if  she  were  to  be  his  ally  in  his 
great  game?  Before  Andre  there  unrolled  a  wonderful 
vision  of  the  future.  He  was  necessary  to  these  wo- 
men. Bien!  They  should  be  necessary  to  him,  and 
bitter  as  was  the  contempt  in  Denise's  pure  eyes  it 
only  steeled  his  determination  remorselessly  to  tread 
the  path  he  had  planned  towards  his  goal — Denise. 

The  King  had  lost  his  interest  and  left  the  ball.  He 
had  entered  it  a  free  man;  he  left  it  in  thraldom.  And 
all  Paris  knew  now  that  for  good  or  evil  the  reversed 
crown  of  the  Duchesse  de  Chateauroux  lay  in  the  lap 
of  another.  How  long  would  she  be  permitted  to 
wear  it  ? 

As  Andre1  hastened  to  leave,  a  touch  was  laid  on  his 
arm.  "  Do  you  believe  in  the  crystal  now  ?  "  asked  a 
gently  derisive  voice. 

Ah  !  the  sorceress  !  he  had  forgotten  her.  ' '  You 
are  a  true  witch,"  he  said,  "you  will  certainly  be 
burnt.  But  I  thank  you." 

"  I  understand,"  she  replied  and  she  took  the  arm 
he  offered.  They  walked  in  silence  in  search  of  her 
carriage. 

"Why  do  you  hate  politics?"  Andr6  demanded 
suddenly. 

"  Because,"  she  answered  slowly,  "  it  is  the  women 
to  whom  politics  are  a  passion  who  ruin  kingdoms." 
The  vehemence  of  the  reply  was  as  surprising  as  its 
nature.  "  Women,"  she  added,  "  governed  the  great 
Quatorze,  they  corrupted  the  Regent,  they  will 


The  King's  Handkerchief  93 

bring  our  sovereign  and  his  kingdom  to  be  the  scorn 
of  the  world.  Better  a  hundred  witches,  a  hundred 
wantons,  than  one  woman  whose  passion  it  is  to  govern 
a  kingdom  through  its  King.  That  is  the  woman  who 
should  be  burnt." 

It  was  a  new  idea  to  Andre:  it  would  have  been  a 
new  idea  to  the  salons  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  to 
the  galleries  of  Versailles. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  when  a  woman  is  not  con- 
tent to  be  a  wife  and  a  mother  she  deserves  to  be  treated 
only  as  the  idol  of  an  hour,  the  pastime  of  a  fleeting 
passion." 

"O  Madame!" 

"O  Monsieur!"  she  retorted.  "Believe  me,  it  is 
pleasanter  for  the  women  in  the  end  and  better  for  the 
men  that  such  women  should  be  denied  everything 
except  that  for  which  they  live — pleasure." 

They  had  reached  the  carriage. 

' '  Do  you  remember  the  pay  for  which  you  asked  ? ' ' 
he  questioned,  taking  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  I  can  never  forget  it." 

"Then " 

She  stepped  serenely  into  the  carriage.  "Then," 
she  whispered,  "I  shall  get  it,  I  suppose,  when  I  really 
want  it,"  and  she  swiftly  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 
"Drive  to  the  hotel  of  the  Due  de  Pontchartrain,"  was 
her  order. 

Andre  swore  softly.  The  Duke  was  his  friend  and 
also  perhaps  the  greatest  libertine  in  Paris.  She 


94  No.  101 

should  not  escape  him.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
was  supping  with  the  Duke  and  his  merry  crew;  wo- 
men there  were  in  plenty,  but  this  sorceress,  the 
daughter  of  a  Paris  flower  girl,  had  neither  been  in- 
vited nor  had  so  much  as  exchanged  a  word  with  his 
grace.  And  when  Andre",  weary  of  lansquenet,  ribald 
songs,  and  copious  toasts,  slunk  to  bed  with  the  rising 
sun  he  was  strangely  glad  that  she  had  tricked  him. 
But  if  she  was  not  what  she  so  cynically  professed  to 
be  what  did  it  mean  ?  And  why  in  her  presence  did 
he  always  have  that  irritating  feeling  that  somewhere 
and  somehow  he  had  met  her  before  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  VTVANDIERE  OP  FONTENOY 

THE  sun  of  spring  had  set  on  May  10,  1745,  the  eve 
of  a  day  memorable  in  the  military  annals  of  the  Brit- 
ish and  French  nations.  Behind  a  camp-fire  in  the 
entrenchments  of  Fontenoy  Andre"  warmed  himself, 
one  of  the  many  canip-fires  which  flared  into  the  dusk 
on  that  plain  which  for  two  centuries  has  been  the 
cock-pit  of  Europe;  and  as  he  stared  out  absently  into 
the  swiftly  falling  night  an  answering  gleam  scarcely 
a  mile  and  a  half  away  yonder  to  the  south-east  at 
Maubray  told  him  that  there  lay  the  headquarters  of 
the  allied  forces  of  the  foe,  English,  Dutch,  and  Aus- 
tians,  commanded  by  an  English  prince  of  the  blood 
royal,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland. 

There  had  been  some  warm  skirmishing  to-day. 
The  British  and  the  Austrians  by  sheer  weight  of  num- 
bers had  tumbled  out  of  the  enclosures  and  copses  the 
Pandours  and  Grassins  thrown  out  as  irregular  out- 
posts from  the  French  army;  and  since  then  Andre" 
and  St.  Ben6it  with  many  others  had  watched  the 

95 


96  No.  101 

allied  generals  and  their  staff  reconnoitring  at  a  safe 
distance  the  masterly  position  drawn  along  the  slopes 
of  Fontenoy  by  Monseigneur  le  Mare*chal  de  Saxe.  A 
hard  nut  to  crack,  gentlemen,  these  lines,  study  them 
through  your  spy-glasses  as  you  will.  Nor  will  you 
find  it  easy  to  detect  the  place  to  push  through.  Yes; 
you  may  attack  any  time  now  night  or  day,  for  Tour- 
nay  to  our  rear  is  hard  pressed  and  unless  relieved  will 
fall  into  the  hands  of  our  master,  L,ouis  XV.  Well 
and  good ;  what  better  could  a  Chevau-leger  de  la 
Garde  desire  than  that  the  pot-bellied  Dutch  traders, 
the  Austrian  hounds,  and  the  British  dogs  should  dash 
themselves  to  pieces  on  our  lines.  Mark  you  how  the 
trenches  run  from  the  forest  of  Barry  covering  our  left 
away  in  the  north,  winding  in  a  gentle  semicircle 
along  the  rim  of  the  curving  slope  two  miles  and  more 
down  to  the  spot  where  the  Chateau  of  Anthoin  guards 
the  passage  of  the  sluggish  Scheldt.  And  meanwhile 
we  lie  here  snug  and  safe  behind  our  redoubts  bristling 
with  guns,  with  logs  cut  from  the  forest  piled  breast- 
high  to  aid  the  advantage  our  general  has  given  us, 
and  with  the  flower  of  the  French  army  crouched  and 
ready  to  roll  you  up  when  you  come.  See  how  open 
the  plain  in  front  is,  sloping  gradually  away  from  us; 
we  can  hammer  you  in  the  most  murderous  fashion 
from  under  cover  if  you  are  mad  enough  to  dream 
that  any  troops  can  drive  from  its  lair  a  French  army 
that  remembers  Dettingen  and  will  have  Tournay  or 
perish.  Our  Marechal  de  Saxe,  who  knows  something 


The  Vivandiere  of  Fontenoy         97 

of  the  art  of  war,  has  pronounced  it  impossible,  and 
God  have  mercy  on  your  silly,  reckless  souls  if  you 
try,  for  the  French  guards  are  here  and  the  Maison  du 
Roi,  and  our  King's  eye  is  on  us  to  see  that  we  do  our 
duty! 

Yes,  His  Majesty  is  here  and  with  him  Monsieur  le 
Dauphin,  and  not  a  few  ladies  greatly  daring,  and  the 
royal  household,  chamberlains  and  equerries,  serving- 
men  and  serving- women,  the  bluest  blood  of  France, 
and  the  wenches  of  the  commissariat,  and  the  actors 
and  actresses  of  the  Theatre  Francais.  Was  there  ever 
such  a  medley — soldiers,  courtesans,  and  sutlers, 
thieves,  marauders,  sluts  and  wantons,  and  the  gilded 
coaches  and  footmen  of  the  beauty  and  birth  that  have 
the  right  to  throng  the  Staircase  des  Ambassadeurs  at 
Versailles  and  have  the  entree  to  the  Grand  I^ever  of 
the  King  of  France  ? 

The  camp-fires  smoke  into  the  chill  dusk;  the  lights 
twinkle  in  the  packed  villages  where  battalions  of  foot 
bivouac  with  squadrons  of  horse.  In  front  smoulders 
and  glares  the  hamlet  of  Bourgeon  fired  by  our  Gras- 
sins  when  they  were  driven  out  this  morning.  Every- 
where the  confused  turmoil  of  a  great  camp,  the  sharp 
blare  of  fitful  trumpets,  the  dull  throb  of  drums,  a 
feverish  shot  from  yonder  where  skirmishing  is  still 
going  on,  the  neighing  of  horses,  the  rumble  of  wag- 
gons. Hard  by  Andre"  here  the  men  are  taking  their 
evening  meal,  chattering,  laughing,  singing,  dancing. 
Such  women  as  can  live  in  camps  are  drinking  too, 


98  No.  101 

singing  when  they  cannot  thieve.  There  are  wounded 
to  be  cared  for,  or  robbed ;  throats  there  are  beyond 
the  lines  to  be  cut,  purses  and  gold  lace  to  be  won  from 
the  fallen.  Make  love  while  you  can.  To-morrow's 
eve  may  never  come.  Have  your  season  of  pleasure, 
Messieurs ;  to-morrow  the  wench  whom  you  kiss  to- 
night will  strip  you  in  the  dusk  of  the  victory  and 
leave  you  to  the  mercy  of  the  dogs,  the  spring  frosts, 
and  of  God — the  God  of  battles. 

Yes,  to-morrow  there  will  surely  be  a  great  battle. 
Have  not  the  actors  promised  it  ?  "  To-morrow  no 
performance !  The  day  after  to-morrow  a  play  in 
honour  of  the  victory  of  Monseigneur  le  Marechal  de 
Saxe  ! "  And  before  long  there  will  be  a  Te  Deum 
in  the  glorious  aisles  of  the  captured  cathedral  of 
Tournay. 

Andre  on  his  straw  heap  curled  in  his  cloak  dreamed 
of  Denise,  of  the  pleasant  lyoire,  and  of  the  Chateau  de 
Beau  Sejour  when  it  should  be  his.  Pest  on  the  ca- 
naille and  their  trulls  singing  that  lampoon  at  his 
elbow: 

"  Une  petite  bourgeoise, 
Ijleve'e  a  la  grivoise 
Mesurant  tout  a  la  toise, 
Fait  de  la  cour  un  taudis,  dis,  dis." 

They  were  singing  of  no  less  a  lady  than  the  fair 
huntress  and  the  King,  the  heroine  of  the  crystal  and 
the  King's  handkerchief,  "  La  Petite  <T Etiolles"  who 
was  now  the  heroine  and  jape  of  the  streets  of  Paris. 


The  Vivandiere  of  Fontenoy         99 

Strange,  so  strange.     And  he,   too,  had  played  his 
part  in  the  drama  of  royal  love : 

"  Louis,  malgre1  son  scrupule, 

Froidement  pour  elle  brule, 
Et  son  amour  ridicule, 
A  fait  rire  tout  Paris,  ris,  ris." 

His  friend!  And  he  would  find  her  at  Versailles  no 
doubt  when  the  campaign  was  over.  How  long  would 
she  stay  there,  this  ambitious  bourgeoise  ? 

"  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  is  sad."  Some  one  had 
touched  his  arm.  Ah  !  only  a  little  vivanditre  whom 
he  did  not  recognise.  ' '  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  has  left 
his  mistress  behind  and  he  is  sad,"  she  protested, 
kneeling  beside  him  and  peering  with  bright  eyes  into 
his  ruffled  visage. 

"Run  away,  my  dear,"  Andre  replied  sleepily.  "I 
am  poor,  tired,  and  in  a  sad  temper." 

"And  I  am  poor,  fresh,  and  in  a  charming  temper," 
she  retorted.  "  If  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  has  left  his 
mistress  behind  there  are  still  many  women  in  the 
world.  Here  is  one  ! ' '  She  began  to  hum  the  refrain 
of  the  song  with  the  archest  drollery  :  "A  fait  rire 
tout  Paris,  ris,  ris." 

Andre  sat  up.  An  appetising  little  vivanditre  this, 
name  of  a  dog  !  Plump  and  most  bravely  tricked  out 
in  a  military  coat  and  short  skirt  which  revealed  what 
would  have  made  two  dancers'  fortunes. 

"  If  I  give  you  a  kiss  will  you  go  ?  "  he  said  good- 
humouredly. 


ioo  No.  101 

"  Oh,  no.  The  kisses  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  are  no 
better  than  those  of  most  men,  I  suppose." 

"  Then  stay  without  them."  He  closed  his  eyes  and 
lay  down  again. 

"  My  thanks,"  she  nodded,  gaily  throwing  back  her 
short  cloak  so  as  to  reveal  that  her  blue  coat  was  open 
at  the  throat  and  suggested  a  chemisette  strangely  fine 
for  a  mvand&re.  Then  she  bent  over  him.  "  Would 
you  do  a  service  for  Mademoiselle  the  Marquise  de 
Beau  Sejour?  "  Andre  sat  up,  sharply.  "  Would  you 
do  the  King  a  service  ?  ' '  she  whispered.  ' ' Mon  Dieu  ! 
how  those  women  bleat !  Come  this  way,  Vicomte,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you  — a  secret."  She  blew 
him  a  kiss  from  saucy  finger-tips. 

Andre,  now  wide-awake,  his  blood  tingling,  followed 
her  till  she  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  an  outhouse. 
"  You  will  do  the  King  a  service  ?  "  she  asked  gravely 
enough.  "Answer  in  my  ear  ;  we  must  not  be  heard. 
Yes?" 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  quickly,  "what  the  service  is  ?  " 

"  The  Vicomte  can  talk  English  ?  " 

"Howthedev ?" 

' '  It  matters  not  how  I  know  it.  Do  not  contradict. 
Time  is  precious.  To-night " — she  was  speaking  ear- 
nestly into  his  ear — ' '  the  friends  of  the  King  have 
learned  that  the  secrets  of  the  Marechal  will  be  betrayed 
to  the  English. " 

"  Good  God  !"     He  gripped  her  arm. 

"Hush!"     She  raised  a  warning  finger.     "It  is 


The  Vivandiere  of  Fontenoy       101 

so.  To  the  charcoal-burner's  hut  two  miles  from  here 
will  come  at  midnight  two  English  officers.  The  plans 
of  the  camp — this  camp,  Vicomte — will  be  given  them; 
to-night  the  English  will  know  where  to  attack  to- 
morrow and  then — "  she  made  a  significant  gesture. 

"But " 

"  No  one  can  say  how  those  plans  have  been  stolen. 
But  stolen  they  have  been,  and  it  is  too  late  to  alter 
the  entrenchments  now.  They  are  made — you  under- 
stand— and  to-morrow  is  here  in  ten  hours.  Worse, 
worse,  the  traitor  is  already  at  the  cottage  with  the 
paper."  Andre  sweated  hot  and  cold,  for  terror  rang 
in  her  pleading  voice.  "  It  is  infamous,  terrible.  But 
one  hope  remains.  We  must  find  an  officer  who  can 
speak  English,  who  will  pretend  to  be  those  English 
officers  and  get  the  plans  before  they  are  handed  to  the 
enemy.  The  Vicomte  understands  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  I  will  go.  He  buttoned  up  his 
cloak  with  peremptory  decision. 

"Oh!"  She  sobbed  with  joy.  She  could  not  thank 
him  in  words. 

"And  who  are  you  ?  "  Andre"  asked. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  The  army  must  not  know  of  the 
danger.  If  you  must  know,  I  am  an  actress,  the  friend 
of  Monseigneur  le  Mare'chal.  I  alone  have  discovered 
this,  and  I  am  come  to  you,  for  I,  too,  love  France." 

The  blood  swirled  for  a  minute  in  his  temples.  Ha  ! 
when  Denise  heard  how  he,  Andre"  de  Nerac,  alone 
had  saved  France,  the  army,  and  the  King,  would  she 


102  No.  101 

not  be  proud?  Perhaps  they  would  give  him  the 
Cordon  Bleu. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked  quietly.  "  I  am 
ready." 

She  described  at  length  where  the  charcoal-burner's 
hut  lay  and  how  it  could  be  reached.  ' '  When  you  are 
there,  rap  twice  on  the  door,"  she  proceeded,  "and 
then  say  in  English  to  whoever  comes,  '  I  am  from 
"No.  101"  to  "No.  101."  '  " 

"  What  does  that  mean?  " 

' '  The  Vicomte  knows  what  a  cipher  is  ?  That  is 
the  traitor's  cipher — and  the  traitor's  name.  It  is  all 
we  have  discovered." 

"A  man,  this  traitor  ?  " 

"  No  one  knows.  I  swear  it.  But  it  must  be  a  man, 
so  say  those  words  in  English;  speak  in  English, 
always — always.  Remember  you  are  an  officer  of  the 
First  Foot  Guards  of  the  English  King;  you  have  come 
for  the  papers  because  '  No.  101'  has  bidden  you.  You 
will  get  them  if  j'ou  are  clever  and  God  wills.  Then 
fly — fly  for  your  life,  and  France  is  saved. ' ' 

"  I  will  not  fly  till  I  have  killed  that  traitor." 

"  Yes,  kill  him  if  you  can.  But  it  is  the  papers  you 
must  have  or  we  are  all  ruined.  The  papers,"  she 
repeated  in  a  dull  agony. 

Andr6  meditated.  Then  he  took  the  vivandtire  by 
both  arms.  ' '  Will  you  swear  by  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Virgin  that  this  is  no  trap?  "  he  asked  solemnly. 

She  turned  her  hooded  face  up  to  his  and  took  his 


The  Vivandifere  of  Fontenoy       103 

Croix  de  St.  Louis.  "  Before  God  and  on  this  cross," 
she  answered  very  slowly,  "it  is  no  trap.  It  is  the 
truth." 

Conviction  rang  in  her  low  tones  and  she  was  trem- 
bling with  emotion . 

"  Very  well.  I  am  ready.  But  my  uniform?  "  he 
asked  sharply.  "  I  shall  be  recognised." 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said.  "See,  my 
room  is  in  the  village,  a  stone's  throw  hence.  A  cloak, 
a  hat,  and  boots  of  the  Knglish  Guard  are  there, 
stripped  from  a  dead  officer.  They  will  cover  your 
uniform.  But  you  must  keep  the  cloak  buttoned,  for 
frock  and  tunic  I  have  not  got,  alas  !  I  have,  too,  my 
actress's  box  of  colours.  I  will  disguise  you  perfectly. 
Come  at  once,  there  is  no  time  to  waste." 

And  so  by  two  flickering  candles  her  deft  fingers 
transformed  him  swiftly  into  the  image  of  a  ruddy, 
beef-fed  English  officer  of  the  English  Guard,  and 
when  her  work  was  done  she  accompanied  him  to  the 
edge  of  the  lines,  where  they  paused. 

"For  God's  sake  be  careful,"  she  urged.  "The 
Pandours,  the  Grassins,  the  marauders,  are  prowling 
everywhere.  Maybe,  too,  '  No.  101  '  may  have  varlets 
on  the  look-out.  I  would  not  frighten  you,  but  you 
should  know  that  the  man  or  woman  who  has  hunted 
'  No.  101 ' — and  several  have  tried— has  so  far  met  with 
death." 

But  Andre  only  smiled  grimly. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "all  who  have  seen  that  traitor 


104  No.  101 

face  to  face  have  died.  It  is  horrible,  but  the  truth. 
Get  the  papers,  that  is  all  we  need.  Pry  no  farther,  I 
beseech  you.  Ah,  sir,  a  woman,  even  an  actress, 
would  not  have  on  her  soul  the  blood  of  a  gallant 
gentleman  who  at  her  bidding  risked  all  for  France." 

"  Death  can  come  but  once,"  he  answered,  "  and  in 
no  nobler  way  than  in  the  service  of  France  and  the 
King." 

"  That  is  true,  but  you  must  live.  For  the  King 
will  be  grateful,  and  I — I,  too,  will  not  forget." 

Andre  smilingly  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"And  is  that  all?"  he  asked  lightly,  "  all  my  reward, 
Mademoiselle  ? ' ' 

"  Come  back,"  she  whispered,  "  comeback  and  you 
will  see  whether  it  is  all.  Meanwhile,  adieu  and  au 
revoir. ' ' 

She  had  slipped  from  his  grasp  and  vanished  as 
mysteriously  as  she  had  come.  Who  was  she  ?  Bah  ! 
it  did  not  matter  now.  The  night  and  its  work  lay 
before  him.  But  to-morrow — to-morrow  ! 

He  mounted,  gave  the  password,  and  rode  into  the 
night. 

Behind  him  lay  the  sleeping  camp  ignorant  of  its 
peril,  in  front  the  strangest,  weirdest,  most  dangerous 
task  he  had  ever  embarked  on;  yet  Andre  felt  no  fear. 
His  only  thought  as  he  trotted  down  the  slope  was  a 
vivid  reminiscence  of  the  words  of  the  crystal-gazer. 
Women  everywhere  in  his  life — always  women  at  every 
turn — the  princess  in  L,ondon — Yvonne — ' '  La  Petite 


The  Vivandiere  of  Fontenoy       105 

<? Etiolles" — the  crystal-gazer,  and  now  the  charming 
little  wvandi&re — but  they  were  all  so  many  instru- 
ments to  help  him  to  win  the  fairest  of  them  all — 
Denise.  It  was  clear  as  noonday  now.  His  task  was 
to  master  the  strand  of  the  web  in  which  these  women, 
by  design  or  accident,  enwrapped  him,  and  to  make 
them  serve  his  purpose  while  he  seemed  to  serve  theirs. 
It  was  an  idea  which  grew  in  power  and  fascination 
every  day.  Women  appealed  to  him  by  nature;  before 
the  charm  of  mind  and  body  in  women  he  was  defence- 
less, but  it  was  his  love  for  Denise  that  had  inspired 
the  conception  of  yoking  the  pleasure  of  life  to  the 
attainment  of  a  glorious  ambition.  To-night  was  a 
matchless  opportunity — and  others  would  follow. 

But  his  mind  while  it  revolved  was  fully  alert.  He 
believed  in  himself  and  his  sword.  His  faith  in  his 
star  grew  stronger  each  day.  But  fate  and  God  helped 
those  who  would  best  help  themselves.  To-night  he 
must  not  fail  on  this  difficult  task  because  he  neglected 
anything  that  caution  could  suggest. 

From  time  to  time  he  halted.  The  night  was  dark, 
that  was  good,  and  a  raw  mist  steamed  out  of  the 
sodden  earth.  He  had  taken  the  precaution  to  bind 
his  horse's  hoofs  in  soft  cloth,  and  she,  a  powerful 
English  thoroughbred,  his  favourite  mare,  knew  her 
master's  will  by  instinct.  The  road,  too,  was  easy  to 
find.  No  one  crossed  his  path.  And  here  at  last  was 
the  little  wood  of  which  he  had  been  told.  Half  a 
mile  away  gleamed  dully  a  fire,  probably  an  English 


io6  No.  101 

picket.  He  dismounted  and  listened  intently.  Not  a 
sound.  And  now  very  warily  he  plunged  forward  into 
the  bowels  of  this  grisly  little  wood,  leading  his  horse, 
his  pistols  cocked  and  sword  ready.  Presently  he 
stumbled;  only  a  fallen  log;  he  stumbled  again;  an- 
other ?  No.  This  time  it  was  a  dead  man.  Andre 
dragged  him  out  and  let  the  rays  of  his  masked  lantern 
fall  cautiously  on  his  face.  Poor  wretch  !  half-naked 
too — a  common  gallows  bird  of  a  marauder,  stripped 
by  the  thieves  and  with  a  knife-thrust  in  his  throat,  a 
common  enough  spectacle  to  those  who  had  played  at 
war  before,  mere  carrion  in  the  daylight,  but  causing 
the  flesh  to  creep  in  the  raw  chills  of  this  infernal  hid- 
ing-place of  treachery.  L,et  him  lie.  And  now  forward 
again.  Pah!  another  corpse  !  A  woman,  and  young, 
too,  that  rascal's  companion  no  doubt,  and  stripped 
as  he  was.  He  bent  over  her.  Ha  !  what  was  that  ? 
One  hand  gone  ?  There  had  been  a  quarrel,  the  rob- 
bers had  killed  her  and  her  mate,  and  to  save  time  had 
simply  chopped  off  her  fingers  to  get  the  booty  she  had 
gripped  so  tightly.  Let  her  lie  beside  him  there  and 
forward  again,  for  such  is  war. 

Halt !  Here  is  the  charcoal-burner's  cabin.  He 
could  just  make  out  its  black  outlines  in  a  clearing  of 
the  trees.  Andre  muffled  his  mare's  head  and  tied  her 
to  a  branch,  and  then  with  naked  sword  crawled  for- 
ward on  hand  and  knees.  Round  the  hut  like  a  sleuth 
hound  he  wormed  his  way,  learning  the  ground,  mak- 
ing absolutely  sure  no  one  lurked  in  this  damp  stillness. 


The  Vivandiere  of  Fontenoy       107 

Positively  not  a  soul,  not  a  whisper.  But  the  horror 
of  the  dead  man  and  woman  and  this  awful  stillness 
had  mastered  him,  and  ten  yards  from  the  door  he  lay 
for  some  minutes  watching,  thinking.  The  hut  showed 
no  signs  of  life.  What  if  "  No.  101  "  were  not  there? 
What  if  the  English  officers  had  forestalled  him  and 
the  papers  were  already  gone  ?  What  if  an  ambuscade 
were  concealed  in  that  ramshackle  cabin  ? 

Still  he  lay  thinking,  shivering,  to  start  swiftly. 
The  shutter  in  the  cabin  wall  was  being  slowly  pushed 
open.  There  was  no  glass  in  the  window;  a  gleam  of 
red  light;  some  one  was  stealthily  looking  out  into  the 
night.  Andre  crawled  on  his  stomach  across  the 
clearing  and  lay  flat  down  with  a  sharp  gasp. 

By  the  living  God,  it  was  a  woman  !     A  woman  ! 

Two  drops  of  icy  sweat  dripped  from  his  forehead  on 
to  the  damp  ground.  A  woman  !  Yes,  he  could  see 
the  silhouette  of  her  hooded  head  and  bust  etched 
against  the  dull  red  light  behind  and  the  inky  frame- 
work of  the  window,  and  she  was  thinking  too,  resting 
her  elbow  placidly  on  the  sill.  A  woman  !  It  was 
terrible,  for  she  was  a  traitor  and  he  must  kill  her, 
here  in  this  cursed  cabin,  in  this  damned  wood.  She 
moved  her  head  and  listened  intently.  Yes,  she  was 
expecting  some  one.  Ha  !  He  was  not  too  late. 

The  shutter  was  stealthily  closed,  but  crouching 
beneath  it  Andre  heard  the  faint  sigh  as  of  a  weary 
heart.  He  sprang  up,  rapped  twice  on  the  door. 

Steps  within,  the  bolts  were  being  drawn  back.     At 


io8  No.  101 

last  a  masked  woman  with  a  lantern  in  her  hand  stood 
in  the  doorway,  and  he  and  she  faced  each  other  in 
silence. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  she  asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

"  lam  from  'No.  101'  to  'No.  101,'  "  Andre  answered 
firmly,  but  inwardly  he  trembled  and  his  sword  was 
ready  to  leap  out. 

She  raised  the  lantern  quietly  and  let  the  light  travel 
from  his  hat  to  his  boots. 

"  Good,"  she  said.     "  Enter,  sir." 

Andre  paused.  Could  he  dare  ?  No — yes — no  ?  For 
two  slow  minutes  the  thoughts  battled  within  him  as 
he  strove  to  penetrate  the  secret  of  that  mask  and  the 
hood  covering  her  head.  She  was  young  —  quite 
young.  That  faint  sigh  as  of  a  weary  heart  seemed  to 
echo  through  the  misty  silence  of  the  wood. 

Then  he  stepped  inside,  and  she  quietly  closed  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  IX 
AT  THE  CHARCOAL-BURNER'S  CABIN  IN  THE  WOODS 

THE  woman  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen  which 
opened  off  the  tiny  passage  and  Andre  followed  her. 
The  two  faced  each  other  in  silence.  Presently  she 
placed  the  lantern  on  the  rough  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  and  once  again  looked  at  him  thoughtfully 
through  her  mask.  The  only  other  light  there  was 
came  from  the  dying  embers  of  a  fire,  whose  murky 
shadows  flickered  on  the  walls  and  on  the  low  roof. 

Andre"  with  his  fingers  on  his  sword-hilt  returned 
her  studied  gaze.  He  could  make  out  that  her  hair 
under  her  hood  was  fair;  her  voice,  her  step,  were 
those  of  a  girl,  and  what  he  could  see  of  her  figure 
shrouded  in  its  long  cloak  bid  well  to  be  shapely.  Yes, 
she  was  young,  this  woman,  but  a  pest  on  that  mask! 

"  You  are  not  the  officer  I  expected,"  she  remarked 
at  last. 

"  He  was  wounded;  he  could  not  come,  so  they  sent 
me  in  his  place, ' '  Andre"  answered  at  once. 

"  I  understand,"  she  replied  with  a  quiet  nod,  "  but 
they  said  two  would  be  sent." 

109 


no  No.  101 

"  My  companion  is  outside  guarding  the  horses." 
Whereupon  she  lifted  the  lantern  and  inspected  him 
closely.  Andre",  ready  for  anything,  stood  quite  still. 
"  If  you  doubt  my  word,"  he  added  carelessly,  "  I  will 
take  you  to  him  now." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  replacing  the  lantern  on  the 
table,  "  your  word  is  enough;  the  word  of  an  English 
officer,"  and  she  turned  to  cross  the  kitchen. 

Andre's  face  was  calmness  itself,  but  his  blood  was 
tingling  with  fear,  curiosity,  revenge.  Never  in  his 
adventurous  life  had  he  been  so  thrilled  as  at  this 
moment  in  this  dim,  silent  kitchen,  alone  with  this 
cold-blooded  traitress  in  a  mask.  But,  mastered  as  he 
was  by  an  overpowering  desire  to  probe  her  secret  to 
the  bottom,  he  was  also  carefully  studying  every  nook 
and  cranny.  There  was  only  one  way  out  of  the  room 
— by  the  door,  which  was  half- open.  He  carefully 
moved  so  that  he  might  face  it,  and  if  a  swift  rush 
were  necessary  not  have  the  table  between  him  and 
the  road  to  escape. 

"  There  are  the  papers,"  she  said  in  her  passionless 
tones.  She  had  taken  them  from  a  cupboard  in  the 
wall. 

He  betrayed  no  eagerness,  but  his  fingers  trembled 
and  his  heart  thumped  wildly  as  he  looked  them 
through  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern,  one  eye  all 
the  time  watching  the  masked  girl,  who  quietly  kneeled 
down  by  the  fire  with  her  back  to  him  and  began  to 
blow  on  the  embers  with  a  bellows. 


At  the  Charcoal -Burner's  Cabin     1 1 1 

"They  are  what  you  want,  are  they  not?"  she 
remarked  over  her  shoulder. 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  answered  as  carelessly. 

Yes,  the  mvandi&re  was  right.  The  paper  was  a 
complete  plan  of  the  French  encampment,  marking 
accurately  the  positions  of  each  battalion  and  each 
battery,  and  in  the  corner  was  drawn  in  blood  a  curious 
sign — two  crossed  daggers  with  101  inserted  in  the 
gaps: 


It  sent  an  icy  shiver  through  him,  this  countermark  of 
the  traitor's  success  and  good  faith.  God  !  they  were 
betrayed  indeed  to  those  damned  Austrian  hounds  and 
English  dogs.  But  he,  Andre  de  Nerac,  had  saved 
the  King  and  the  army  of  France  ! 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  folding  the  paper  up  and 
putting  it  deliberately  within  his  cloak. 

"  I  do  not  desire  your  thanks,"  she  replied  as  she 
blew  away  some  ashes. 

Andre"  stared  in  dumb  bewilderment  at  her  on  her 
knees  there  in  front  of  the  fire.  Should  he  run  her 
through  at  once  or  strangle  her  for  an  execrable  trait- 
ress ?  The  woman  betrayed  neither  fear  nor  interest. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  presence. 

"Are  you  '  No.  101 '  ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Oh,  no."  She  was  laughing  softly.  "  I  am  only 
her — agent." 


112  NO.  101 

"  Then  the  trait — then  she  is  a  woman  ?." 

"  Yes."  She  stood  up  and  shook  some  cinders  from 
her  cloak.  "Yes,  she  is  a  woman."  And  Andre 
knew  she  was  lying.  The  fingers  on  his  sword  re- 
laxed. Kill  her  he  could  not — yet.  Depart  he  could 
not — yet.  For  he  was  in  the  grip  of  a  weird  fascina- 
tion— of  a  secret  whose  mystery  numbed  his  senses. 

"  It  is  marvellous,"  he  muttered,  "  but  the  English 
army  thanks  '  No.  101  '  and  you." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  indifferently,"  it  is  marvellous, 
but  the  English  army  is  nothing  to  her  nor  to  me. 
For  myself  I  detest  the  English  officers,  but  like  you, 
sir,  I  simply  do  as  I  am  bid.  Give  me  the  gold  and  I 
will  wish  you  good-night." 

The  gold  ;  English  gold  !  Pest  on  it !  The  vivan- 
diere  and  he  had  thought  of  everything  but  that.  The 
perspiration  swelled  on  to  his  forehead.  He  grasped 
his  sword  and  took  a  step  towards  the  doorway. 

"  I  was  given  no  gold,"  he  said  brusquely  and 
waited  with  drawn  breath. 

' '  No  ? ' '  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  astonished 
him  by  kneeling  down  and  taking  up  the  bellows.  ' '  It 
is  like  English  officers  to  buy  secrets  and  not  pay  for 
them." 

"You  are  unjust  to  the  English,"  he  protested. 
Ah  !  that  surely  was  a  stroke  of  genius. 

"I  know  them,  the  English,"  she  said  without 
looking  round. 

Dead  silence  broken  only  by  the  wheezy  puffs  of  the 


At  the  Charcoal -Burner's  Cabin     1 13 

bellows.  Pity,  fear,  astonishment,  and  a  burning  curi- 
osity wrestled  in  Andre's  breast.  Was  this  masked 
girl  flesh  and  blood  or  a  devil  in  human  form  ? 

"  Do  you  want  the  papers  back  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  They  are  not  mine  to  ask.  I  was  told  to  give 
them  to  you;  keep  them." 

The  icy  contempt  in  her  voice  stung  him.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  France  he  would  have  flung  them  at  her 
and  then  strangled  her  on  the  spot. 

"  Before  I  wish  you  good-night,"  he  said  after  a 
pause,  "  will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  remove  your 
mask?" 

"  Why  ?  "     She  wheeled  slowly,  still  on  her  knees. 

' '  Why  does  even  an  English  officer  ask  a  woman  to 
do  such  a  thing?" 

She  rose  and  came  close  to  him.  ' '  I  will  take  off 
my  mask  with  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  if  you,  sir,  will 
do  me  the  honour  to  take  off  your  cloak  and  share  my 
supper." 

Andre  could  not  check  a  start.  Had  she  guessed 
the  truth  or  was  this  diabolical  coquetry  ? 

"Permit  me,"  she  said  softly,  and  before  he  could 
move  a  finger  she  had  wrenched  his  cloak  asunder. 
"Ah  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  thought  so.  A  hero  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  Chevau-le'ger  de  la  Garde  with  a  naked 
sword  and  I — a  woman — defenceless,  alone.  You  an 
Knglish  officer — you — you  !  " 

She  had  slipped  from  his  side.  The  table  with  the 
smoking  lantern  was  between  them. 


ii4  o.  101 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Nerac,"  she  whispered, 
"  any  woman  can  make  a  fool  of  you." 

Andre  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  "  Traitress," 
he  swore.  "  Your  last  hour  has  come." 

She  gazed  at  him  calmly.  "  listen,"  she  said, 
"  listen  !  Monsieur  Spy.  To-morrow  you  will  be  shot 
by  the  English — and  the  papers" —  she  laughed — 
"  will  still  help  towards  the  ruin  of  France." 

Andre  halted  sharply.  What  was  that  outside? 
Horse  hoofs  in  the  clearing — two  horses  !  The  Eng- 
lish officers  were  here  and  he  was  trapped,  trapped,  as 
God  lived,  by  a  woman  who  flouted  his  uniform  and 
himself. 

"  You  will  not  escape,"  he  said  with  set  teeth,  "  and 
I  have  the  papers." 

"  Pooh  !  "  she  flicked  her  cloak  in  his  face. 

A  loud  rapping  on  the  outer  door. 

"Enter,"  she  called.  "Enter,  Captain  Statham, 
the  door  is  not  bolted." 

Captain  Statham  !  They  had  met  again  and  not  in 
the  salon  of  a  woman  of  pleasure.  Andre  laughed 
aloud. 

The  latch  was  being  lifted.  It  was  now  or  never. 
Twisting  his  cloak  round  his  left  arm  as  the  Spaniard 
does  in  a  duel  with  knives,  in  a  trice  Andr6,  sword  in 
hand,  was  over  the  table  with  the  spring  of  a  cat. 
When  he  had  punished  this  traitress  he  would  deal 
with  Captain  Statham.  But  the  woman  was  too  quick 
for  him.  The  legs  of  the  table  met  him  in  the  stomach 


At  the  Charcoal-Burner's  Cabin     115 

and  sent  him  staggering  back.  Through  the  sicken- 
ing pain  he  could  hear  her  soft  laugh  of  victorious 
contempt.  A  crash.  She  had  hurled  the  lamp  to  the 
floor  and  was  past  him,  missing  his  sword  point  by 
just  half  an  inch.  The  blade  quivered  in  the  wood- 
work. Half-mad,  he  grabbed  at  her  mask — it  came 
off — but  she  was  gone. 

"  We  shall  meet  again,"  she  called,  "  your  business 
and  mine  I  hope  does  not  end  here."  A  spurt  of 
flame  shot  into  his  eyes.  The  oil  of  the  exploded  lamp 
had  set  the  dry,  rotten  timbers  ablaze  and  the  kitchen 
was  alight.  Quick  as  thought  Andre"  hurled  himself 
after  the  girl.  She  had  doubled  to  the  right — there 
was  another  door  as  he  guessed  leading  to  the  back — 
she  was  through  it  and  he  after  her,  snatching  at  her 
figure  in  the  pitchy  darkness.  For  two  seconds  he 
held  her  cloak — she  twisted  out  of  it — and  he  fell  back 
with  a  curse  against  the  wall.  She  had  escaped. 

And  now  the  flame  from  the  kitchen  revealed  Cap- 
tain Statham  standing  in  the  front  doorway,  stupefied, 
his  eyes  glaring  like  a  madman's.  With  a  cry  he 
flung  himself  on  Andre.  A  cold  pain  in  his  left  arm 
— Andre"  was  stabbed — but  this  was  no  moment  for 
vengeance,  only  for  flight,  for  on  his  escape  hung  the 
safety  and  honour  of  France.  He  rushed  into  the 
open  at  the  back.  To  find  his  horse — to  find  his 
horse! 

"  I  have  seen  her,"  he  heard  Statham  cry  as  he 
whipped  round  the  cabin.  It  would  be  a  race  across 


n6  No.  101 

the  clearing  now,  for  Statham's  companion  must  be 
waiting  on  the  other  side,  and  in  the  roar  of  flame  it 
would  be  as  light  as  day  in  this  grisly  thicket.  What 
if  his  horse  were  not  there  ?  Two  to  one  then.  Bah! 
should  he  turn  to  meet  them  as  it  was  ?  No,  the  papers 
— the  papers  first — vengeance  would  follow  later. 

For  one  second  Andre"  crouched  behind  the  hut. 
Ah!  there  was  his  horse — there  was  the  other  officer 
twenty  paces  off.  Could  he  do  it  ?  He  must. 

"y/suJ"  came  the  words  in  the  voice  of  George 
Onslow  as  Andre  doubled  round  the  corner,  "  it  is  the 
Vicomte,  Statham ;  we  are  betrayed.  This  way  for 
God's  sake— ha!  " 

Crack  went  Onslow's  pistol.  Andre  had  leaped 
across  the  clearing.  He  had  missed,  but  the  flash 
almost  singed  Andre's  hair. 

One  slash  of  his  sword  and  his  horse  was  free. 

"  Good-night,  gentlemen,"  he  shouted  in  victorious 
bravado,  ' '  we  shall  meet  to-morrow.  Mes  saluts  et  au 
revoir  !  " 

In  went  the  spurs  and  his  maddened  horse  was 
bursting  through  the  wood.  Another  pistol-shot  and 
they  were  after  him,  but  he  had  a  good  start  and  he 
knew  that  no  beast  alive  could  overhaul  the  beautiful 
blood  mare  he  had  bought  in  England.  A  roar  of 
flame  behind  him — the  crack  of  the  wood — two  pistol 
bullets  singing  through  the  swirling  raw  air — a  ghastly 
vision  of  that  half-naked  man  and  woman  in  the  horror 
of  the  clotted  grass,  his  horse's  hoofs  stamping  out  the 


At  the  Charcoal-Burner's  Cabin     1 1 7 

dead  woman's  face  as  she  lay  where  he  had  left  her — 
a  ride  as  of  devil-tormented  goblins  through  the  pains 
of  hell — that  was  Andre's  recollection  of  his  return 
until  he  dropped  fainting  within  his  own  lines. 

Two  flickering  candles  danced  in  his  eyes  as  he 
opened  them. 

"  Bravo  !  "  whispered  a  caressing  voice.    "  Bravo  !  " 

He  was  lying  in  a  long  chair  and  the  little  vivandtire 
was  kneeling  beside  him. 

"  Bravo  !  "  she  repeated,  "and  now  drink — drink  !  " 
She  forced  brandy,  glorious  and  hot,  down  his  throat. 

"Ah!"  He  sat  up.  The  horror  was  slowly  fading 
away,  though  he  could  still  see  floating  between  her 
face  and  his  that  black  cabin  roaring  red,  and  that 
outcast  woman's  face  crushed  into  pulp  beneath  the 
iron  of  his  horse's  shoe.  "The  papers — the  plans," 
he  muttered. 

"  They  are  here,"  she  waved  them  softly,  they  were 
stained  with  blood.  "  Yes,  we  are  saved — France  and 
the  army  and  the  King  are  saved  and  you — you  have 
saved  us." 

Andre  smiled,  letting  his  head  drop.  He  was 
supremely  happy.  Denise  would  hear  of  this — Denise 
—ah! 

"  Come,  my  friend,"  the  vivandtire  whispered, 
"  look  at  yourself.  It  is  too  droll." 

He  took  the  mirror  from  her  and  laughed — laughed 
loud  and  long.  Here  was,  indeed,  a  picture  of  a  ruffian 


n8  No.  101 

with  a  uniform  torn  and  singed,  the  paint  smeared 
over  his  cheeks,  one  sleeve  cut  away,  and  his  left  arm 
bandaged  !  Pah  !  that  was  where  Statham  had  stabbed 
him.  He  would  pay  for  it  to-morrow — no,  to-day — 
to-day. 

"  I  found  the  papers  when  you  fainted,"  said  the 
vivandure.  "  I  wept  when  I  found  them,  for  I  was 
sick  with  fear  that  you  had  failed,  and  now,  man  ami, 
I  take  them  to  Monseigneur  le  Marechal." 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  they  are  yours." 

Then  Andre  told  his  story  while  she  listened  eagerly. 
But  he  did  not  tell  her  all,  for  instinctively  he  felt 
some  things  he  had  discovered  that  night  had  better  be 
locked  as  a  secret  in  his  own  heart  until  he  knew  more. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  was  '  No.  101,'  "  she  remarked 
thoughtfully.  "  But  it  is  a  pity  you  did  not  see  her 
face.  Some  day  hereafter  it  might  be  useful  to  be  able 
to  recognise  that  woman." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  assented,  and  he  added  to  himself, 
"I  shall  see  it  before  I  die.  It  is  written  in  the  stars." 
For  the  curious  thought  haunted  his  mind  that  if  he 
had  seen  that  woman's  face  he  would  never  have  re- 
turned. Yet  Captain  Statham  had  seen  it ;  suddenly 
his  cry,  his  look  in  that  narrow  passage,  rose  before 
him.  Was  it  what  he  had  seen  which  had  shot  such 
awful  fear  and  horror  into  his  eyes  ?  Could  it  be  that 
the  girl  in  the  mask  was — ah  !  he  must  wait  before  the 
question  was  answered.  And  the  answer  would  cer- 
tainly come.  That  too  was  written  in  the  stars. 


At  the  Charcoal-Burner's  Cabin     1 19 

"And  now  sleep,  Vicomte,"  his  companion  whis- 
pered. "  In  four  hours  the  dawn  will  be  here.  A 
battle  is  at  hand,  and  once  more  you  must  fight  for  the 
fair  eyes  of  your  mistress,  for  the  honour  of  France 
and  the  King." 

She  half-carried  him  to  the  bed.  The  flame-red 
pictures  of  the  night  kept  shooting  through  a  black- 
ness of  pain  in  his  eyes.  How  tired  and  weak  he  was. 
From  far  away  a  trumpet  note  rang,  a  drum  throbbed, 
a  snatch  of  revelling  song  bubbled  mockingly  up  : 

"  Et  son  amour  ridicule, 
A  fait  rire  tout  Paris,  ris,  ris." 

"  I  made  a  promise,"  dropped  the  soothing  words  in 
his  ear,  ' '  but  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  must  never  betray 
the  secret  to  Mouseigneur  and  the  King.  Yet  remem- 
ber, I  beg,  there  is  nothing — nothing — I  will  not  do  for 
you  if  I  can  serve  you,  for  I  am  grateful — more  grate- 
ful than  a  woman  can  say."  A  cushion  was  slipped 
under  his  neck.  Two  soft  arms  enfolded  him  for  a 
brief  second.  ' '  The  lips,  Vicomte, ' '  came  the  caressing 
chant — "  the  lips  that  a  king  has  kissed  salute  you." 
His  head  rested  on  her  breast.  "Adieu  ! "  She  had 
vanished  and  his  numbed  senses  ebbed  away  into  an 
enchanted  oblivion.  The  Loire  floated  at  his  feet,  the 
autumn  trees  rustled  a  perfect  pleasantness  and  peace, 
and  Denise  standing  beneath  the  carved  mantelpiece 
with  "Dieu  Le  Vengeur"  in  a  scroll  of  gold  above  her 
had  him  in  her  forgiving  arms. 


I2O  NO.  101 

Ha  !  What  was  that  ?  Hoarse  voices  and  cries,  the 
rush  of  feet,  of  horses,  of  waggons,  and  of  guns,  the 
rattle  of  the  drums  and  the  challenge  of  trumpets. 
Andre"  leaped  up,  flung  the  window  wide  open.  The 
dawn  was  here,  and  hark,  hark  !  Those  are  the  silver 
trumpets  of  the  Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde  de  la  Mai- 
son  du  Roi.  The  trumpets  of  the  Guard  calling  as 
they  called  at  Steinkirk.  To  horse  !  to  horse  ! 

And  what  is  that  away  yonder  through  the  pearly 
mist  of  the  morning  out  there  in  the  enclosures  and 
coppices  dripping  in  the  dew  of  May?  Answering 
calls  and  the  feverish  thud  of  drums.  They  are  com- 
ing— the  white-coated  Austrian  hounds  and  the  red- 
coated  Knglish  dogs  !  They  are  coming  !  To  horse  ! 
to  horse  !  For  to-day  we  must  fight  for  the  honour  of 
France — fight  that  we  may  have  the  play  promised  to 
the  army  by  the  actresses  of  the  Theatre  Francais 
when  Monseigneur  the  Marechal  de  Saxe  has  won  yet 
another  victory  for  His  Majesty,  Well  Beloved.  Ah, 
they  shall  see,  those  Knglish  dogs,  what  lies  in  the 
hearts  and  swords  of  the  nobles  of  the  Guard.  Fon- 
tenoy  !  Neither  they  nor  we  will  ever  forget  Fontenoy. 


CHAPTER  X 

FONTENOY 

THE  dull  boom  of  a  gun  away  on  the  right  greeted 
Andre  as  he  flung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  the 
trumpets  were  echoing  all  along  the  line  from  the 
citadel  of  Anthoin  over  the  slopes  on  .which  the  bri- 
gaded army  lay  right  up  to  the  forest  of  Barry  which 
covered  the  French  left.  A  plumed  officer  galloped  up 
to  him.  It  was  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant. 

"The  Dutch  and  the  Austrians,"  he  cried,  "are 
concentrating  opposite  us  on  our  right,  but  the  centre 
of  the  attack  will  be" — he  waved  his  sword  northwards 
of  Fontenoy — "  the  English  form  the  enemy's  right 
flank." 

"And  the  Maison  du  Roi  ?  " 

"  Will  make  the  third  line  of  the  cavalry  behind  the 
carbineers  and  the  foot  guards  yonder.  But  you  are 
wounded,  Vicotnte?" 

"A  scratch  —  nothing  at  all,"  Andr6  replied 
brusquely. 

The  Chevalier  looked  at  him,  smiled,  and  galloped 
away. 

121 


122  NO.  101 

It  was  past  seven  o'clock.  Andre"  paused  to  cast  a 
hasty  eye  out  towards  Maubray  and  Veyon,  whence 
the  foe  must  come.  Around  him  staff  officers  cantered 
this  way  and  that;  hoarse  orders  were  being  shouted, 
regiments  were  falling  in,  deploying,  lining  the  en- 
trenchments, one,  two,  three  deep.  Everywhere  the 
strenuous  confusion  and  fierce  excitement  of  an  army 
hurriedly  preparing  for  battle.  Over  the  plain  hung 
a  soft  grey  mist  gently  rolling  up  as  the  day  grew, 
but  dimly  in  the  distance,  past  the  enclosures  and  the 
coppices  in  the  midst  of  which  the  wrecked  hamlet  of 
Bourgeon  still  smoked  sullenly  in  the  raw  air,  troops — 
cavalry  mainly  —  were  collecting.  Yes,  the  enemy 
really  meant  business.  It  was  to  be  an  assault  along 
the  whole  front  and  there  was  no  time  to  waste. 

With  the  Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde  Andre  found 
St.  Ben6it. 

"  Where  the  devil  have  you  been  ?  "  his  friend  de- 
manded. "  We  looked  for  you  everywhere  last  night. 
Jeannette  and  Gabrielle  supped  in  my  coach." 

"  Two  assignations,"  Andre"  laughed.  "  Such  fun, 
I  can  tell  you. ' ' 

"And  you  got  that  slit  between  the  two,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  a  good  deal  more.  Hullo  !  What  's 
that?" 

The  guns  from  the  citadel  and  the  redoubts  on  the 
slopes  had  begun  in  real  earnest,  answered  as  yet  feebly 
from  the  enemy's  left.  St.  Ben&it  and  Andre  trotted 
forward  to  make  the  position  out. 


Fontenoy  123 

"Mark  you  there!"  cried  St.  Ben6it.  "  Those  are 
English  cavalry  forming  up  and  see — see !  There 
come  the  red-coated  blackguards  behind  'em.  By 
God  !  they  're  going  to  let  us  give  'em  a  taste  of  our 
quality." 

"  Do  you  imagine  they  will  dare  to  march  across  the 
plain  in  the  teeth  of  our  artillery  ?  "  Andre  asked. 

''It  looks  like  it,"  St.  Ben6it  replied  smiling. 
"And  so  much  the  better." 

The  pair  watched  eagerly.  The  rattle  of  muskets 
crackled  up  from  the  left — the  skirmishers,  the  Pan- 
dours  and  Grassins  are  out,  and  every  minute  it  is  hot- 
ter and  hotter  work;  the  smoke  drifts  up,  and  through 
it  they  can  catch  glimpses  of  red-coated  infantry  fall- 
ing in,  company  on  company,  battalion  upon  battalion, 
in  the  rear  of  the  covering  squadrons  of  horse.  Ha! 
our  guns  up  here  have  chimed  in  now,  and  already 
there  are  empty  saddles  in  the  dragoons  so  placidly 
arrayed  amongst  the  lanes  and  enclosures,  but  those 
stolid  islanders  mind  it  as  little  as  a  fisher  does  flies  on 
a  July  day.  Down  rolls  the  smoke,  wafting  in  sullen 
clouds,  shrouding  the  slope  and  the  enclosures,  only 
broken  by  fitful  puffs  of  air  or  torn  by  red  flashes  and 
the  dull  plunge  of  the  round  shot.  Yet  this  is  a  mere 
prelude  up  here,  though  on  our  right  the  engagement 
has  really  begun. 

"  Monseigneur,  poor  devil ! "  whispered  St.  Ben6it, 
"  but  what  a  spirit." 

Yes,  that  is  Monseigueur  le  Mare"chal  de  Saxe,  car- 


124  No.  101 

ried  in  a  wicker  litter,  for  he  cannot  sit  his  horse.  He 
is  dying  of  dropsy  is  Monseigneur,  but  he  will  see  for 
himself,  and  as  he  is  carried  along  he  sucks  a  leaden 
bullet  to  assuage  his  raging  thirst.  The  fire  of  battle 
glows  in  those  eyes  which  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  and 
so  many  women  have  adored,  and  it  inspires  every 
man  on  whom  his  glance  falls,  so  full  of  confidence  and 
calm  is  he  as  he  issues  his  orders,  serene,  majestic,  and 
watchful.  No  troops  in  the  world  can  ever  force  this 
entrenched  camp  he  is  thinking,  and  before  death 
takes  him  he  will  win  another  great  victory  for  his 
master,  King  I^ouis.  Northwards  of  Fontenoy  is 
where  he  mostly  prefers  to  stay,  for  this  is  the  critical 
place  where  by  a  miracle  the  French  position  may  be 
turned,  and  here  he  holds  the  Maison  du  Roi  and  his 
reserves  in  leash.  Those  English  are  such  stubborn 
devils  when  they  are  in  the  stomach  for  a  tussle  at  hand 
grips.  We  must  be  ready  even  for  miracles. 

An  hour — another  passed.  The  Chevalier  emerges 
from  the  drifting  smoke  with  welcome  news. 

"The  Austrians  and  Dutch  are  retiring,"  he  says. 
"Can  you  not  hear  their  drums  beating  to  re-form? 
Down  there  we  have  handled  them  so  roughly  that 
they  have  sought  cover,  huddled  behind  Bourgeon. 
Their  horse  is  broken  and  tumbled  up,  and  the  plain 
is  littered  with  their  dead.  They  won't  trouble  us 
much  more." 

"  It  will  be  the  same  here,  worse  luck,"  St.  Ben6it 
grumbled.  "  Those  cursed  artillerymen  are  to  have 


Fontenoy  125 

all  the  honours  to-day.  We  shall  not  be  wanted  at 
all." 

"  Do  not  be  too  sure,"  Andre"  said  quietly.  And  the 
Chevalier  nodded  in  agreement  before  he  spurred  off 
to  carry  a  message  to  the  King,  who  with  Monsieur  le 
Dauphin  is  watching  the  fight  near  the  Hermitage  of 
Notre  Dame  des  Bois. 

Boom  !  boom  !  on  our  front  at  last.  Those  are  the 
English  field-pieces  beginning  to  reply  to  the  salute  we 
have  been  lavishly  doling  out.  They  fire  well,  those 
English  artillerymen,  and  their  shots  come  plumping 
into  the  entrenchments  and  crashing  into  the  forest. 
The  men  begin  to  drop  in  the  first  line. 

"Look  at  that  fool  De  Grammont,"  Andre"  mut- 
tered, pointing  with  his  sword. 

An  officer  on  a  white  charger  was  galloping  to  and 
fro  in  front  of  his  regiment  of  guards,  encouraging 
them  in  this  gallant  madcap  fashion  to  keep  steady 
under  the  ever-increasing  fire. 

"  By  God !  he  's  down,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  saw 
the  white  horse  stumble  and  fall,  struck  by  a  six- 
pounder;  and  friendly  arms  are  carrying  his  shattered 
rider  dying  to  the  rear. 

"Poor  De  Grammont!"  said  St.  Ben6it,  wiping 
away  a  tear,  "never  again  will  his  hot-headed  chivalry 
lead  us  into  a  devil's  trap  as  at  Dettingen." 

And  he  was  right.  De  Grammont,  who  had  ruined 
a  French  army  on  the  Maine,  had  fought  his  last  fight 
that  morning,  for  a  cannon-ball  had  smashed  his  thigh. 


126  No.  101 

"  Drums  !  English  drums  !  "  Andre"  cried  excitedly. 
"  They  are  advancing — can't  you  hear  'em  ?  We  may 
be  needed — thank  God  !  we  may  be  needed  now." 

Below  and  across  the  roar  of  the  guns,  through  the 
dirty  smoke  blended  with  the  last  wisps  of  the  pearly 
mist,  throbs  in  a  glorious  challenge  the  solemn  tuck  of 
English  drums  and  the  marching  call  of  English 
trumpets.  They  are  coming  on  now.  Can  we  not  see 
the  flutter  of  English  colours  and  the  flash  of  light  on 
epaulet  and  sword  ? 

"A  noble  sight  that !  "  muttered  St.  Ben6it  with  a 
catch  in  his  throat. 

"  They  are  fit  for  gentlemen  to  cross  swords  with," 
said  the  generous  Andre.  "I  hope  they  '11  last  till  we 
can  meet  them  as  they  deserve." 

Through  the  smoke  they  could  both  make  out  how 
the  cavalry  had  fallen  to  the  rear  and  the  infantry  was 
calmly  advancing  across  the  plain  in  two  long  lines 
with  the  Hanoverians  stepping  out  on  their  left. 
Aligned  as  on  the  parade  ground,  never  halting,  never 
hurrying,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  not  a  falter,  not  a 
wrinkle,  the  great  red  column  in  two  long  lines  comes 
on  to  the  music  of  its  drums;  to-day  these  English 
dogs  will  achieve  the  impossible  if  they  can.  But  can 
they?  Surely  not.  From  Fontenoy  shriek  the  can- 
nons, from  Eu  roar  our  guns,  taking  them  in  flank 
and  in  front;  there  are  gaps  in  the  files — they  close  ;  a 
hideous  rent  —  it  is  sealed  up;  like  a  great  scarlet  wave 
they  roll  on  majestic  in  irresistible  silence.  Nothing 


Fontenoy  127 

can  stop  them,  not  all  the  guns  in  Europe — marching 
on,  marching  on,  marching  on  unreasoning,  dogged, 
straight  into  the  throats  of  our  artillery  and  the  muz- 
zles of  our  muskets,  mad  —  mad  —  mad,  but  the  mad- 
ness that  intoxicates  the  heart  and  ennobles  the  soul. 
Dutch  and  Austrians  have  twice  faced  this  hellish  fire 
and  twice  recoiled,  but  these  English  will  come  on ; 
they  said  they  would  storm  the  entrenchments  on  the 
left,  and  get  to  them  they  will,  for  a  promise  is  a  pro- 
mise, and  they  have  English  gentlemen  to  lead  them. 

For  a  time  they  are  lost  in  the  smoke  and  the  roar 
and  the  gentle  folds  of  the  slope. 

"  They  are  broken,"  cried  St.  Ben6it.  "  Well,  they 
did  their  best,  but  it  's  a  pity " 

"  Broken  !  by  God  !  "  burst  out  Andre",  "  look  there 
— they  've  done  it — done  it — and " 

A  cry  has  risen  from  the  French  ranks,  a  cry  of 
rage  and  dismay  and  surprise. 

The  smoke  had  suddenly  lifted,  cut  asunder  by  the 
flashes  of  the  guns,  and  it  revealed  a  superb  spectacle. 
Not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  entrenchments,  right 
across  our  left  front  almost  on  the  top  of  the  slope, 
have  suddenly  emerged  into  sight  the  grim  faces  of 
those  serried  red  lines.  The  English  infantry  are  on  us 
— actually  on  us !  Hoarse  commands,  repeated,  a 
quiver,  they  have  halted,  the  drums  still  placidly 
beating,  colours  gently  flapping,  while  the  officers 
calmly  re-dress  their  battalions. 

A  frenzied  moment,  for  behind  on  the  slope  here  it  is 


128  No.  101 

our  footmen's  first  real  sight  of  them,  and  Swiss 
Guards,  Gardes  Francaises,  the  regiments  of  Courtin, 
Aubeterre,  and  of  the  King  are  hurried,  dashed,  into 
order.  What  are  we  waiting  for  ?  Keep  cool  for  God's 
sake !  We  have  got  to  fight  for  it  now.  This  is  going 
to  be  a  serious  affair. 

And  then  a  touch  to  stir  the  blood.  An  English 
officer  has  quietly  stepped  forward — it  is  my  Lord 
Charles  Hay.  Politely  he  doffs  his  hat  to  the  French 
lines  and  raises  his  flask  as  a  man  drinks  a  health  at 
a  banquet.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  cries  in  French,  "  I 
hope  you  will  wait  for  us  to-day  and  will  not  swim  the 
Scheldt  as  you  swam  the  Maine  at  Dettingen."  A 
dozen  angry  voices  go  up  in  bitter  protest  at  the  taunt, 
and  here,  in  the  third  line,  we  Chevau-legers  de  la 
Garde  grip  our  swords  in  ferocious  wrath.  My  lord 
turns  round.  "Men  of  the  King's  Company,"  his 
voice  rings  out,  "  here,"  he  points  with  his  cane,  and 
waves  his  hat,  "here  are  the  French  Guards.  You 
are  going  to  beat  them  to-day,"  and  at  once  rolls  up 
in  a  tumultuous  cresendo  the  thunder  of  an  English 
cheer,  drowning  the  orders  of  the  French  officers, 
quelling  the  tornado  of  the  guns.  Again  and  again 
it  surges  through  the  columns,  that  challenge  as  of 
blooded  hounds  on  the  quarry  at  bay. 

"  For  what  we  are  about  to  receive,"  Andre  heard 
an  English  officer  call  out,  waving  towards  the  French 
muskets,  "  may  the  Lord  make  us  truly  thankful," 
and  the  cheer  melts  into  a  gay,  grim  laugh,  cut  short 


Fontenoy  1 29 

by  a  hideous  volley,  for  the  Swiss  Guards  have  fired 
straight  into  the  column  at  thirty  paces  distance. 
Down  go  red-coats  by  the  dozen,  but  they  remain  un- 
shaken. A  minute  to  draw  breath,  and  the  turn  of 
the  English  dogs  is  come  at  last.  No  more  marching 
now;  it  will  be  bullet  for  bullet— and  then  the  bayonet. 

Fire !  The  command  runs  along  from  battalion  to 
battalion.  Fire! 

Andre  and  St.  Ben6it  in  the  third  line  wept  with 
wrath  and  despair.  The  English  volleys  are  devilish, 
murderous,  horrible,  and  delivered  as  calmly,  silently, 
majestically,  as  they  had  marched.  The  red  lines  are 
girt  about  with  a  halo  of  impenetrable  flame,  pitiless, 
ceaseless,  triumphant.  The  Swiss  Guards  are  deci- 
mated, the  Courtinois  are  piled  in  dying  heaps,  the 
French  Guards  shattered.  Hotter  and  hotter  it  grows 
as  the  smoke  becomes  thicker.  Step  by  step  the  red 
lines  advance. 

Andre  straining  forward  can  see  the  stony  faces,  the 
loading  and  reloading  as  at  a  battue,  the  officers  walk- 
ing serenely  up  and  down,  marking  each  volley,  now 
jesting,  now  reprimanding,  now  encouraging,  now 
smartly  tapping  the  muskets  with  their  canes  to  force 
them  down  and  make  the  men  fire  low,  and  fire  low 
they  do.  Can  nothing  be  done  ?  The  Royal  Brigade, 
the  Soissonois  are  brought  up.  Forward  now  in  God's 
name  and  for  the  honour  of  France  !  Useless,  utterly 
useless.  Volley  upon  volley  shivers  the  advancing 
files ;  they  tumble  in  bloody  swathes ;  they  stop, 


130  No,  101 

recoil,  reel.  Disorder  is  spreading,  shouts  and  cries 
and  the  pile  of  dead  grow  bigger,  and  yard  by  yard  to 
those  infernal  drums  roll  on  the  red  lines.  They  are 
past  the  earthworks.  On  they  come — a  volley — on — 
on — steady,  slow,  irresistible.  Ten  minutes  more  and 
we  are  lost ! 

Fierce  trumpets  through  the  smoke,  the  thunder  of 
cavalry  charging.  The  Marechal  has  launched  them, 
and  not  a  moment  too  soon.  The  English  halt — wait 
— fire.  Horses  and  men  crumble  up — dissolve.  No 
matter.  Bring  up  the  second  line  and  now  ride  home, 
ride  home.  Shame  on  you  that  twelve  battalions  of 
infantry  backed  by  artillery  can  defy  the  flower  of  our 
French  army.  The  English  line  shivers  into  a  brist- 
ling wall.  Keep  quiet  there  and  reserve  your  fire — 
muttered  whispers  and  curses,  and  then  the  flame 
leaps  out.  That  is  the  way,  sirs;  stand  up  to  them  and 
for  heaven's  name  let  the  drums  keep  beating,  the 
drums  that  beat  at  Dettingen  and  are  beating  now  at 
Foutenoy.  Rank  after  rank  totters,  breaks,  parts, 
scatters.  A  cheer  rolls  up,  the  cheers  of  the  victors, 
for  dying  men  and  riderless  horses  are  all  that  remain 
of  our  second  line  of  cavalry. 

The  English  have  won  !  No,  by  God  and  the  Virgin, 
the  patron  of  France,  not  yet  !  We  still  remain,  we 
the  Maison  du  Roi  and  we  the  Chevau-legers  de  la 
Garde.  The  silver  trumpets  blare  out  their  warning 
challenge.  One  solemn  minute  —  clear  your  sword 
arms  and  charge  !  Charge  ! 


Fontenoy  131 

Boot  to  boot,  saddle  to  saddle,  through  the  smoke 
we  cut  our  way  with  set  teeth  and  sobbing  breath. 
We  are  no  bourgoise,  we ;  no  canaille  or  roturiers 
drawn  from  the  plough ;  we  are  nobles  all,  and  this 
will  be  the  cold  steel  of  the  white  arm  at  close  grips. 
The  ground  is  thick  with  dead — our  horses  nostrils 
gleam  red — God  !  we  are  on  them  and  the  blast  of  the 
tornado  smites  us  and  we — we  reel !  As  hail  from  a 
north-easter  smites  a  standing  crop  so  do  their  bullets 
smite  us  and  we  stagger  like  drunken  men,  stagger 
and  blench  and  fail.  Red  are  their  coats,  but  red  and 
hot  as  the  flames  of  hell  is  their  fire,  and  in  five  awful 
minutes  we  too  are  left  sobbing  in  the  saddle,  beaten 
— beaten  !  The  chivalry  of  France  has  gone  down 
before  that  pitiless  furnace. 

Andre  found  himself  swept  to  the  rear  in  the  hideous 
backwash  of  that  miserable  recoil,  spattered  with 
blood,  choked  with  smoke.  Gasping  he  galloped  to 
the  Marechal. 

"  The  day  is  lost,"  he  shouted,  "  lost !  " 

The  Marechal  nodded  as  he  calmly  sucked  his  leaden 
bullet. 

"  Go,"  he  replied,  "  do  you  go  and  warn  the  King 
to  retire.  At  least  save  His  Majesty." 

And  then  he  turned  to  summon  his  last  reserves  for 
one  final  effort  to  retrieve  the  day  while  Andre"  de- 
livered his  message.  But  I/>uis  would  not  retire. 
Impenetrable  as  ever,  inspired  by  a  gleam  of  kingly 
pride,  he  doggedly  refused  to  obey,  and  Andre"  in 


132  No.  101 

despair  left  him  to  rally  and  lead  the  infantry  and 
horse  that  still  remained.  Better  now  death  than  dis- 
honour, for  a  prisoner  he  would  not  be  a  second  time. 
Back  to  the  fray  and  fall  before  defeat  conies  ! 

The  Chevalier  met  him  as  he  plunged  once  more 
into  the  smoke,  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the 
shouting.  "The  tide  has  turned!"  the  young  man 
cried,  "  the  Austrians  and  the  Dutch  have  retired.  It 
is  only  the  English  now.  This  way,  Vicomte,  this 
way  ! ' ' 

The  Marechal  had  grasped  the  fact.  Dutch  and 
Austrians  had  made  a  second  effort  on  their  right  and 
centre  and  it  had  failed.  The  English  were  alone,  and 
with  consummate  coolness  he  played  his  last  card. 
Guns,  horses,  men,  are  feverishly  brought  up  from 
Fontenoy,  and  while  the  Irish  brigade,  six  battalions 
strong,  men  once  British  subjects  but  now  fighting  for 
France,  Jacobites,  Papists,  loyal  and  disloyal  alike, 
fugitives,  and  renegades,  gentlemen,  thieves,  advent- 
urers, and  footpads — men  fighting  not  for  honour  or 
victory  but  for  their  necks — are  hurled  at  the  red  lines, 
the  broken  infantry  are  rallied,  the  cavalry  re-formed. 
The  gayest  libertine  in  France,  the  Due  de  Richelieu, 
gathers  the  scattered  companies.  The  King  and  the 
Dauphin  are  rallying  the  Maison  du  Roi. 

See !  the  English  are  falling  back.  With  sullen 
reluctance  the  order  has  been  given — with  sullen  re- 
luctance it  is  obeyed.  Retire  they  must  or  die  here  to 
the  last  man.  Step  by  step,  yard  by  yard,  reduced 


Fontenoy  133 

to  half  its  numbers,  the  red  column  with  drums  still 
beating  just  when  victory  was  in  its  grasp  slowly  halts 
—fires— retires.  As  they  had  advanced,  so  do  they  re- 
treat, those  English  dogs,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  files 
beautifully  dressed,  in  all  the  cool  majesty  of  the  pa- 
rade ground,  firing  those  terrible  volleys  to  the  end. 

Led  by  the  King  to  the  charge  once  again  does  the 
Maison  du  Roi  spur  furiously  to  break  them  ;  once 
again  as  the  island  rocks  hurl  back  the  invading  waves 
do  the  English  columns  rend  them  asunder.  Not  all 
the  cavalry  and  infantry  of  France  can  mar  or  shake 
that  glorious  red  line.  And  we  can  do  no  more.  Let 
them  go.  Into  the  smoke  and  down  the  blood-stained 
slopes  they  glide  and  vanish.  It  is  enough — enough! 

The  battle  is  over.  We  have  won — yes,  we  have 
won,  for  the  camp  and  the  entrenchments  are  once 
more  ours  and  Tournay  will  fall.  Fontenoy  is  and 
will  remain  a  victory  for  France,  but  6000  English 
dead  and  wounded  and  10,000  French  piled  on  the 
crest  and  on  these  awful  ridges  bear  witness  to  what  a 
victory  it  has  been.  And  we  French  noblemen  who 
have  lived  through  the  morning  hours  of  May  nth 
may  well  take  off  our  hats  to  the  English  and  Han- 
overian infantry  who  unsupported — nay,  deserted  by 
their  allies — marched  into  a  French  camp  across  an 
open  plain  and  all  but  wrested  victory  from  twice  their 
numbers.  To-morrow  the  bells  of  Notre  Dame  and 
a  hundred  churches  will  ring  for  the  success  of  Fon- 
tenoy, but  to-night  the  British  drums  that  beat  on 


134  No.  101 

these  slopes  will  beat  in  our  ears  and  for  ever  through 
the  centuries  their  deathless  challenge  to  the  homage 
of  chivalry  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  call  themselves 
soldiers.  No;  we  do  not  grudge  them  their  triumph, 
for  there  are  things  finer  than  victory,  and  that  honour 
is  theirs. 


Andre",  marvellously  untouched,  found  St.  Ben6it 
lying  by  his  dead  horse  half  under  the  wheel  of  a  dis- 
mounted gun  on  the  top  of  the  slope.  This  was  where 
the  English  Guards  had  turned  to  bay  for  the  last 
time,  when  the  final  furious  charge  that  had  failed  had 
been  made  by  the  Maison  du  Roi.  St.  Ben6it  had  a 
bullet  through  one  arm  and  a  bayonet  thrust  in  his 
thigh,  but  thank  God  he  still  lived,  and  Andre  carried 
him  to  his  coach  with  the  help  of  the  Chevalier,  who 
with  a  tender  care  strange  to  his  pert  insouciance  was 
doing  what  he  could  for  the  fallen. 

"  He  will  live  !  "  said  the  Chevalier  as  they  returned 
to  the  spot  to  seek  for  others,  and  plenty  there  were 
heaped  amongst  the  Swiss  Guards  and  the  Gardes 
Francaises,  nobles,  his  friends  and  comrades,  in  all 
the  gay  bravery  of  their  blood-stained  ruffles  and 
haughty  uniforms,  and  mostly  dead.  The  strippers  of 
the  camp  were  already  at  work  on  their  ghastly  trade. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Chevalier  suddenly,  for 
Andr6  had  uttered  a  cry  of  pain.  Only  an  English 


Fontenoy  135 

officer  of  the  ist  Foot  Guards,  fresh-coloured,  smiling, 
handsome,  lying  at  his  feet  amidst  a  score  of  common 
English  rank  and  file.  His  sword  was  not  drawn,  but 
in  his  hand  was  a  small  cane.  He  had  been  re-dressing 
the  line  of  his  company  as  they  had  halted  to  receive 
and  repulse  that  last  charge. 

"It  is  Captain  Statham,"  Andre  explained.  "I 
knew  him  in  England,  and — "  he  checked  himself 
to  stoop.  "  Yes,  he  is  dead.  It  is  strange." 

"  Strange?  "  questioned  the  Chevalier. 

But  Andre"  had  nothing  more  to  say.  The  Chevalier 
looked  very  seriously  at  him  and  then  at  the  dead 
man.  A  shiver  went  through  him.  "  Shall  we  say  a 
prayer  for  his  soul  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  hurried,  low  voice. 

Andre  assented  in  no  little  surprise,  and  together 
they  repeated  a  hasty  prayer,  and  then  Andre"  carried 
him  away.  He  could  not  leave  him — this  English 
officer — to  the  awful  mercies  of  the  harpies  who  preyed 
on  the  gallant  dead. 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  this,"  were  the  Chevalier's 
words  as  they  parted,  and  his  gay  face  was  sick.  And 
Andre"  had  had  enough  too. 

And  that  night  as  he  munched  his  supper  there  was 
but  one  thought  in  his  mind.  Perhaps  an  English 
Denise  and  an  English  mother  were  now  on  their 
knees  awaiting  the  news  from  Fontenoy ;  but  they 
would  never  know  that  last  night  the  son  and  lover 
had  gone  to  the  cabin  of  the  charcoal-burner  and  had 
by  an  accident  seen  the  face  of  the  masked  woman  who 


136  No.  101 

had  striven  to  betray  the  French  army.  To-day  Cap- 
tain Statham,  as  so  many  others,  had  fallen  in  the  per- 
formance of  his  duty.  Was  that  fate  or  the  chance  of 
war  ?  Who  could  say  ?  With  a  shudder  he  recalled 
the  grim  words  of  the  little  vivandfere  who  had  disap- 
peared. But  one  thing  was  certain.  Whatever  secret 
Captain  Statham  had  learned — if  it  was  a  secret — his 
lips  would  never  reveal  it  now.  And  had  he,  Andre 
de  Nerac,  seen  that  woman's  face  he,  too,  perhaps, 
had  been  found  lying  where  the  dead  were  thickest. 
"  No.  101  !"  And  had  he  done  with  "  No.  101  "  ? 
Assuredly  not,  assuredly  not. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  THE  SALON  DE  LA  PAIX  AT  VERSAILLES 

"  MON  DIEU!  my  dear  Abbe,"  exclaimed  the  Com- 
tesse  des  Forges,  dropping  her  cards  to  let  her  languish- 
ing, heavy-lidded  eyes  linger  on  the  smiling  face  of  her 
latest  protigg,  "  you  make  my  blood  run  cold." 

"Brelan  de  rots'"  called  the  plump  Duchesse  de 
Pontchartrain,  carefully  noting  the  fact  on  her  tablets 
before  she  allowed  her  suspicions  to  master  her. 
"  But  are  you  quite  sure  ?  " 

The  dandy  Abbe  St.  Victor  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur compared  the  Venus  on  the  cover  of  his  snuff 
box  with  the  delicately-tinted  shoulders  of  her  grace. 

"As  sure,"  he  said  slowly,  "  as  Madame  the  Dau- 
phine  is  dead,  rest  her  poor  German  soul,  and  that 
Monsieur  the  Dauphin  will  marry  again." 

It  was  Sunday  evening  a  good  year  after  Fontenoy. 
The  Court  was  just  out  of  mourning,  to  its  great  joy, 
and  the  Salon  de  la  Paix  at  Versailles  blazed  with 
lights  and  with  the  jewels  and  silks  of  a  brilliant 
throng,  a  few  of  whom  were  dispersed  in  groups  mak- 
ing love  or  talking  scandal  over  their  chocolate,  while 

137 


138  No.  101 

the  greater  part  were  playing  cards,  the  ladies  at  the 
fashionable  brSlan,  the  men  at  the  dice  which  led  to 
duels  and  mortgaged  estates. 

"  It  will  be  the  deuce  for  the  peace  negotiations," 
Philippe  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  remarked,  scowling  at 
the  Abbe  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was  con- 
demned to  sit  at  this  table  while  Denise,  the  favour- 
ite of  the  Queen's  maids  of  honour,  was  talking  in 
an  alcove  behind  his  back  to  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant. 

"  Go  you,  my  dear  Abbe,"  said  the  Comtesse,  "and 
bring  Des  Forges  and  St.  Benoit  here.  Your  news 
will  excite  them  more  than  throwing  three  sixes 
running." 

"And,"  added  the  Duchess  in  her  pouting  staccato, 
"  put  your  head  into  the  gallery  yonder,  dear  friend, 
and  see  if  my  husband  has  finished  his  flirtation  with 
that  pretty  wench  of  mine." 

"And  if  he  has  n't,  Duchess?  " 

"  Give  them  a  plenary  absolution  and  let  them  begin 
all  over  again,"  interposed  the  Comtesse. 

"To  be  sure,"  the  Duchess  assented  plaintively, 
"  it  will  keep  them  both  out  of  worse  mischief.  Really 
I  cannot  dismiss  the  girl.  She  washes  my  lace  to  per- 
fection." And  she  resettled  the  delicate  trimming  on 
her  corsage  for  the  benefit  of  the  Comte  de  Mont 
Rouge. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  St.  Ben6it  demanded. 

The  Abbe"  took  a  fresh  pinch  of  snuff.     "  The  mes- 


In  the  Salon  De  La  Paix  139 

senger,"  he  said  with  no  little  excitement,  "the 
messenger  who  was  conveying  secret  instructions  from 
the  King  to  the  army  in  Flanders  was  found  last  night 
in  a  ditch  near  Vincennes  drugged,  his  arms  and  feet 
bound,  and " 

"  The  despatches  gone  ?  " 

"Naturally." 

The  Comte  des  Forges  meditatively  licked  his  signet 
ring.  "I  knew  something  d-dreadful  had  hap-hap- 
pened,"  he  stammered.  "  Why  ever  should  I  only  be 
able  to  t-throw  twos  to-to-night  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  make  of  that  ?  "  asked  Mont  Rouge. 

St.  Ben6it  appeared  to  study  his  uniform  of  the 
Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde  in  the  mirror.  His  eye 
rested  on  Denise  and  her  companion.  "  The  second 
time  in  the  last  three  months,"  he  muttered.  "  What 
does  the  courier  say  ?  ' ' 

"Say,"  repeated  the  Comtesse  des  Forges,  "say! 
Not  a  word,  you  may  swear.  The  fool  knows  nothing 
till  he  woke  to  find  a  gag  in  his  mouth  and  two  peas- 
ants glaring  at  him  as  if  he  were  the  devil." 

"  Pontchartrain,"  remarked  the  Duchess,  "is  sure 
the  man  fell  in  with  a  siren  at  the  cabaret  where  he 
had  his  supper.  Pontchartrain  knows  most  of  the 
cabarets  and  all  the  sirens." 

"Wait,  wait,"  pursued  the  Abbe".  "The  courier 
was  carrying  not  merely  army  despatches,  but,"  his 
voice  dropped,  "a  private  cipher  message  from  His 
Majesty  to  the  agent  of  the  Jacobites." 


140  No.  101 

St.  Ben&it  so  forgot  the  etiquette  of  the  Salon  de  la 
Paix  as  to  whistle  softly. 

' '  B-by  Jove  ! ' '  stammered  Des  Forges. 

"  They  say,"  whispered  the  Abbe  to  his  enthralled 
audience,  "  that  the  message  was  an  invitation  to 
Prince  Charles  Edward  to  ignore  the  King's  explicit 
promise  to  the  English  ambassador  and  to  present  him- 
self at  Versailles." 

' '  Dear  Prince  ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Duchess.  ' '  If  only 
he  would  come  to  Court  I  believe  I  could  make  Pont- 
chartrain  jealous  and  still  have  my  lace  washed  by 
Frangoise." 

"I  should  kiss  him,  yes  I  should  kiss  him,  the  royal 
hero.  You  agree,  Des  Forges?"  cried  the  Comtesse. 
"The  English — pah  !  I  would  do  anything  to  spite 
the  English  for  their  treachery  to  their  lawful  Prince. ' ' 

"But  your  kisses,  ma  mte,"  replied  her  husband, 
"  w-would  only  keep  the  P-prince  from  g-going  again 
to  seek  his  c-crown." 

"  Pray  what  does  the  Comte  des  Forges  know  of 
madame's  kisses?"  asked  the  Duchess  innocently, 
and  they  all  laughed,  no  one  more  heartily  than  the 
Comtesse  herself. 

"And  this  is  serious,"  said  St.  Ben6it,  "  even  more 
serious  than  the  kisses  of  Madame  la  Comtesse." 

"And  the  King  is  really  angry,"  the  Comtesse  said. 
' '  M.  d'  Argenson  came  away  from  his  audience  this 
morning  looking  as  if  he  had  stolen  the  despatches 
himself." 


In  the  Salon  De  La  Paix  141 

"And  His  Majesty  remained  on  his  knees  at  mass 
ten  minutes  after  every  one  else  had  risen,"  said  the 
Abbe;  "  he  always  does  when  he  is  thoroughly  angry." 

' '  I  told  you  it  would  play  the  devil  with  the  peace 
negotiations,"  Mont  Rouge  commented. 

"It  is  curious,"  mused  St.  Ben6it,  "  very  curious 
that  this  infernal  treason  should  begin  again  just  when 
the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant  has  returned  to  his  duties." 

"  The  Chevalier?  "  they  all  questioned  eagerly. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  night  before  Fontenoy,"  St. 
Ben6it  continued,  "  when  our  friend  Andr6  de  Ne"rac 
saved  the  army  from  foul  treachery?  Well,  I  never 
could  get  the  whole  truth  from  him,  but  he  allowed  me 
to  infer  that  the  Chevalier  was  playing  a  very  fishy 
part  in  the  business." 

"  Impossible,"  protested  the  Duchess.  "  The  Che- 
valier is  on  our  side — the  Queen's  side — the  right 
side." 

"  The  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour,  I  suppose,"  sneered 
the  Comtesse,  "  is  guarantee  for  that." 

"  That  is  not  worthy  of  you,  dear  lady,"  St.  Ben6it 
corrected  gently,  looking  into  her  great  blue  eyes  as 
he  had  looked  twelve  months  ago.  "  Mademoiselle  de 
Beau  Sejour  is  Mademoiselle  de  Beau  Sejour.  It  will 
take  more  than  a  parvenu  Italian  chevalier  to  make  her 
forget  she  is  of  the  same  quality  and  sex  as  the  Com- 
tesse des  Forges.  But  I  would  wager  a  diamond  brace- 
let to  a  sou  that  either  the  Chevalier  is  at  the  bottom 
of  this  dirty  business— or, "  he  delicately  sniffed  at  his 


142  No.  101 

lace  handkerchief  as  one  who  feared  infection,  "or  that 
woman." 

"  Poisson-Pompadour,  a  fishy  grisette,"  sniggered 
Des  Forges,  playing  on  the  name,  "at  the  b-bottom  of 
a  f-fishy  business — eh  ?  " 

' '  The  Abbe  can  give  us  news  again, ' '  remarked 
Mont  Rouge  sweetly.  "  He  attended  the  grisette's 
toilet  this  morning." 

' '  Impossible  ! ' '  the  Comtesse  exclaimed  with  sincere 
anger. 

"  He  blushes,  our  dear  friend,"  pursued  the  remorse- 
less Mont  Rouge,  "  blushes  a  rose  de  Pompadour. 
Ha  !  ha  !  "  The  hit  went  home.  Rose  de  Pompadour 
was  the  new  colour  invented  in  honour  of  the  King's 
favourite  at  the  world-famed  royal  manufactory  at 
Sevres. 

"  The  Due  de  Pontchartrain  was  there  too,"  retorted 
the  Abbe  sulkily. 

"  That,"  pouted  the  Duchess,  "  is  a  worse  insult  to 
me  than  if ' ' 

"  Than  what,  ma  mignonne?  "  blandly  inquired  his 
Grace,  who  had  stolen  in  upon  the  group.  ' '  I  would 
have  you  know,  ladies,  that  in  a  white  peignoir,  with 
her  hair  about  her  bare  shoulders,  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour  is  the  prettiest  woman  save  one  at  Ver- 
sailles, or  Paris  for  that  matter." 

"  Every  one,"  laughed  the  Abb6,  "  knows  that  Mon- 
sieur le  Due  is  a  connoisseur  of  painting." 

"And  the  name  of  the  other  divine  grisette  ?  "  asked 


In  the  Salon  De  La  Paix  143 

the  Comtesse  roguishly,  for  the  Duke  was  studying 
her  as  he  studied  the  coryphles  of  the  opera  or  his 
race-horses. 

The  Duke  kissed  the  plump  fingers  of  his  wife  with 
the  most  charming  grace  imaginable.  "  The  mirror 
will  answer  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  quoth  he. 

"But  my  peignoir  is  blue,"  she  protested,  "and 
even  Francoise  could  tell  you  my  shoulders  on  such 
occasions  never  are  bare." 

"  The  more  's  the  pity."  St.  Beu6it  bowed  to  the 
diamonds  on  her  breast. 

"Amen  !  "  droned  the  Abbe  in  the  officiating  priest's 
sing-song,  and  the  Duchess  dimpled  with  delight. 

"  The  Abbe"  has  not  told  you,"  said  the  Duke,  "how 
he  sat  on  the  f-fishy  grisette's  bed.  He  is  a  bold  man 
our  spiritual  friend.  Listen.  There  were  we  all  at 
madame's  toilet  this  morning — charming  shoulders  she 
has  I  repeat — and  kept  standing  on  our  feet  were  we, 
for  she  is  royal  now  is  the  Marquise,  and  no  one  may 
have  a  chair." 

"The  insolence  of  the  jade,"  cried  the  Comtesse. 
"  That  Versailles  should  endure  it!  " 

"And  presently  strides  in  the  King.  No  chair  for 
him  either.  Parbleu  !  My  legs  were  breaking  and  so 
apparently  were  the  Abba's.  Presently  I  heard  a 
crack,  and  there  had  our  witty  friend  plumped  himself 
down  right  on  Madame's  bed.  '  With  your  permission, 
sire,'  he  said  with  a  comic  cock  of  his  eye,  '  but  I  am 
dead  tired.'  And  the  King,  who  had  come  in  as 


144  o.  101 

sulky  as  a  bear,  burst  into  laughter.  '  Look,  Madame,' 
he  said,  '  look  at  this  poor  devil  of  an  Abbe  ! '  " 

"And  the  Pompadour?" 

"  She  shrugged  her  bare  shoulders  and  laughed  too, 
because  the  King  was  amused,  but  she  put  back  her 
ears,  very  pretty  ears,  by  the  way,  like  a  vicious  horse. 
My  faith  !  she  will  not  forget  '  this  poor  devil  of  an 
Abb6.'  " 

"  My  friend,  I  could  embrace  you,"  cried  the 
Duchess. 

"  If  you  would  only  do  it  again,"  said  the  Cointesse, 
"  I  would  embrace  you,  too." 

"  Do  you  remember  De  N6rac's  prophecy,"  St. 
Ben6it  asked  quietly,  "  that  if  that  woman  came  to 
Versailles  she  would  come  to  stay  ? ' ' 

"Ah!  if  only  some  one  would  poison  her,"  murmured 
the  Duchess. 

"  Or  another  take  her  place,"  cried  the  Comtesse. 

"  For  the  good  of  the  country,"  interposed  the 
Duke,  ' '  I  am  quite  ready  to  sacrifice  the  Duchess,  even 
though  she " 

"  This  is  no  jesting  matter,"  St.  Ben&it  interrupted 
sharply.  "  The  Queen  and  the  ministers  know  that 
unless  we  can  ruin  this  jade  of  the  bourgeoisie  France 
and  we  will  be  ruined.  I  wish  to  heaven  Andre  de 
Nerac  were  here  instead  of  risking  his  life  in  Flanders 
to  no  purpose  than  the  glory  of  the  Pompadour." 

"A  miracle,  a  miracle  !  "  cried  the  Duchess,  pointing 
with  her  fan. 


In  the  Salon  De  La  Paix  145 

At  the  end  of  the  salon  a  little  knot  of  excited 
courtiers  had  gathered,  and  in  their  midst  stood  the 
Vicomte  de  Nerac. 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  halted,  gazing  about  him 
with  a  slightly  dazed  air.  The  brilliant  lights,  the 
jewels  and  bare  shoulders  of  the  ladies,  the  uniforms 
and  stars  of  the  men.  the  rattle  of  the  dice  and  the 
clatter  of  a  hundred  idle  tongues  seemed  to  awe  him, 
familiar  though  he  was  with  the  scene.  It  was  pleas- 
ant in  this  heavily-perfumed  air  with  the  flash  of  the 
candelabra  on  his  riding  cloak,  faded  uniform,  and 
dusty  boots,  and  on  his  tanned  face,  to  mark  the 
singularly  bracing  and  vivid  contrast  that  he  presented 
to  the  luxurious  idlers  of  his  world.  His  eye  had 
fallen  on  Denise.  His  shoulders  straightened,  his  lips 
tightened,  unconsciously. 

"  Depend  on  it,"  St.  Ben6it  whisperd  to  the  Duke. 
"Andre's  appearance  has  something  to  do  with  this 
damnable  treachery." 

"  Or,"  added  the  Duke  quietly,  "  with  the  schemes 
of  that  fishy  grisette.  The  post  of  the  master  of  her 
household  is  vacant." 

Andre  was  soon  basking  in  the  smiles  of  his  lady 
friends,  proud  to  welcome  a  hero  who  had  saved  an 
army  of  France.  Ten  minutes  showed  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  mysterious  affair  at  Vincennes,  and  he 
could  only  repeat  that  he  had  been  summoned  to 
Versailles  by  the  express  commands  of  his  Sovereign. 
Why  and  for  what  he  was  ignorant. 


146  No.  101 

The  ladies  in  particular  as  they  babbled  watched 
him  closely.  Eighteen  months  of  campaigning  had 
not  robbed  his  smile  of  its  charm  nor  his  dark  eyes  of 
their  eloquent  reserve.  He  was  still  the  Andr6  de 
Nerac  who  had  made  more  husbands  jealous,  more 
women  rivals,  than  even  the  Due  de  Richelieu.  For 
Mademoiselle  Claire,  for  Mademoiselle  Eugenie,  and 
the  other  maids  of  honour  he  had  a  bow  and  the 
finished  compliment  so  dear  to  Versailles  ;  he  had  even 
a  friendly  nod  for  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant.  But 
to  Denise's  curtsey  a  cold  and  correct  salute  in  silence 
was  all  he  deigned  to  reply.  The  rebuke  made  the 
eyes  of  the  Comtesse  des  Forges  very  bright ;  indeed, 
it  set  the  Salon  de  la  Paix  gossiping  when  he  withdrew 
to  remove  the  stains  of  his  hard  riding. 

"This  will  ruin  everything,"  St.  Ben6it  muttered, 
for  he  had  both  fears  and  plans  in  his  head.  So  that 
when  Andre  and  Denise  suddenly  met  in  the  half- 
lights  of  the  empty  gallery  neither  knew  the  meeting 
was  due  to  a  friendly  schemer. 

The  quick  flush  in  Denise's  cheeks  (she  ravished 
the  gay  blades  of  Versailles  by  scorning  powder 
and  paint),  the  dropping  of  her  grey  eyes,  sent  a 
thrill  into  the  soldier's  heart,  but  he  kept  a  resolute 
silence. 

"Madame  your  mother,"  Denise  began  with  an 
effort,  "  will  be  proud  to  welcome  you  back.  Do  you 
stay  long  at  Versailles  ? ' '  she  added  hurriedly,  when 
he  simply  bowed. 


In  the  Salon  De  La  Paix  147 

"I  do  not  know,  Mademoiselle;  I  await  His  Ma- 
jesty's commands. 

"  You  are  perhaps  sorry  to  return  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell — yet,"  he  replied  with  slow  emphasis. 

Denise  flashed  an  inquiring  glance.  ' '  What  you 
will  find  here,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  cannot  please  a 
noble  of  France.  A  neglected  and  dishonoured  queen 
— an  adventuress " 

"  We  are  in  the  King's  hands,"  Andre"  interrupted 
with  a  dry  smile. 

"  Yes.  Versailles,  France,  are  in  the  King's  hands," 
she  repeated  despairingly.  "Ah!"  she  cried  with  a 
sudden  flash,  ' '  we  want  all  who  would  help  to — to — ' ' 
the  words  died  away  under  the  chill  of  his  demeanour. 

"  To  banish  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour  ?  "  he  in- 
quired after  a  pause. 

"  Yes.  There  will  be  no  peace  nor  honour  for 
France  until  the  Queen,  my  mistress,  is  restored  to  her 
place  and  that  woman  ceases  to  traffic  in  the  affairs  of 
a  great  kingdom." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  Mademoiselle.  Perhaps 
it  is  your  business.  It  certainly  is  not  mine." 

"  Not  yours  ?  Why  not  ?  Are  you  not  one  of  us,  a 
soldier,  a  noble?  " 

"  Doubtless,  but,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "  I  at 
least  cannot  forget  that  a  worthless  libertine " 

"  I  had  hoped  you  had  forgotten  those  words  ;  you 
are  cruel,"  she  interrupted,  "you  who  have  shown " 

"Say  no  more,"  he  exclaimed  joyfully.     "  I 


148  No.  101 

forgotten  and  I  ask  you  to  forgive.  I  was  rude  as  well 
as  cruel.  Yes,  I  have  come  back  as  I  swore  I  would 
to  prove  that  I  might  be  worthy  of  your  regard,  your 
love,  Denise." 

He  gently  touched  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Of  my  love,"  she  said  quietly,  "you  must  not 
speak,  if  you  please.  But  my  regard  you  have  already 
won  in  Flanders.  And,  Andre,"  she  continued  earn- 
estly, "there  is  work  for  you  to  do  here.  You  will 
help  us — us  who  would — ah  ! ' ' 

She  broke  off  sharply,  for  one  of  the  ushers  of  the 
King's  bed-chamber  had  swiftly  come  upon  them. 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  he  said,  "  His  Majesty  de- 
sires you  to  wait  upon  him  at  once  in  the  salon  of 
Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour. ' ' 

"  But — "  Andre  looked  at  his  travel-stained  cloak 
and  boots. 

"  His  Majesty  desired  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  to  attend 
just  as  he  was." 

"Adieu,"  Denise  whispered,  "  and  do  not  forget  to- 
night that  you  are  a  noble  and  soldier  of  France." 

Andre  turned  angrily  to  obey,  for  the  message  from 
those  pleading  grey  eyes  had  stirred  all  the  fierce  pride 
of  his  class.  Confound  this  bourgeoise  woman  who 
ordered  nobles  to  dance  attendance  in  her  salon  ! 

"  I  will  not  forget,  Denise,"  he  whispered  back  and 
his  spurs  rang  defiance  on  the  staircase  which  led  to 
the  second  floor,  where  the  favourite  so  loathed  by  the 
Court  held  sway. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  ROYAI,  GRISETTB 

"  MONSIEUR  I,E  VICOMTE  DE  NERAC,"  pronounced 
the  gentleman  usher  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

The  King  was  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  talk- 
ing to  Madame  de  Pompadour  smiling  from  an  arm- 
chair up  at  him.  The  bored,  impenetrable  royal  eyes 
travelled  over  Andrews  figure  as  he  advanced  to  kneel 
and  kiss  his  Sovereign's  hand.  Madame  then  without 
rising  held  out  hers,  and  Andre,  conscious  only  of  the 
King's  presence,  must  swallow  his  pride  and  salute  as 
she  sat  this  upstart  usurper  of  royal  honours.  But 
the  blood  of  the  De  Neracs  boiled  within  him. 

Ivouis  gazed  with  lazy  approval  round  the  apartment 
furnished  with  even  greater  taste  than  wealth,  at  the 
costly  books  and  pictures,  at  the  unfinished  plaster 
cast  which  Madame  had  been  modelling,  at  the  plans 
of  buildings  littered  on  a  glorious  escritoire.  A  Mae- 
cenas in  petticoats,  whatever  else  she  was,  this  advent- 
uress, thought  Andre  as  he  waited  in  silence,  and  he 
recalled  the  memories  of  the  salon  she  had  held  as 
Madame  d'Etiolles  for  Voltaire,  the  President  Renault, 
the  Abbe  de  Bernis,  and  the  other  famous  wits. 

149 


150  No.  101 

"  Madame  la  Marquise,"  said  the  King  abruptly, 
"  will  convey  my  wishes.  Good  night,  Vicomte." 

The  curtains  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  had 
scarcely  fallen  on  the  departing  King  when  the  lady 
resumed  her  seat  as  if  she  desired  the  standing  Andre 
clearly  to  recognise  that  the  King's  presence  made  no 
difference  to  the  rights  she  claimed.  It  was,  too,  as 
if  she  insolently  invited  him  to  inspect  her.  And  in- 
spect her  he  did,  tingling  all  the  time  with  rage. 

How  she  looked  Nattier  and  La  Tour,  who  painted 
her  in  the  heyday  of  her  womanhood  and  of  her  beauty, 
have  left  on  immortal  record.  And  anger  could  not 
prevent  Andre's  heart,  so  susceptible  to  feminine  loveli- 
ness, from  a  swift  thrill  of  homage.  That  dainty  head, 
the  exquisite  shape  and  pose  of  her  neck,  those  won- 
derful eyes,  now  black,  now  blue,  now  grey,  that  bust 
called  by  a  poet  Us  parfaits  plaisirs,  the  harmony  of 
her  heliotrope  robe,  lace-edged  with  cunning  artless- 
ness — every  line,  every  detail,  witnessed  to  a  woman's 
magic  insight  into  the  handiwork  of  God.  And  here 
in  this  haughty  Versailles,  where  taste,  breeding,  and 
birth  were  superior  to  mere  beauty,  this  woman,  born 
a  bourgeoise,  had  by  some  diabolic  witchery  usurped 
the  polished  ease  so  justly  regarded  as  the  heritage  and 
the  monopoly  of  the  ch&teau  and  of  the  noblesse. 

She  had  risen.  "  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  Andre 
noted  the  musical  modulation  in  her  voice,  "His  Majesty 
has  been  pleased  to  confer  on  you  the  fit  reward  of 
your  valour." 


A  Royal  Grisette  151 

She  was  gravely  offering  him  the  soldier's  and  states- 
man's most  coveted  distinction,  the  Cordon  Bleu.  The 
blood  leaped  into  Andre's  head.  For  a  moment  the 
room  swam  blue  as  the  ribbon.  "  Madame,  I  thank 
you,"  he  stammered. 

"  It  is  the  King's  gift,"  she  corrected  calmly. 

For  a  minute  or  two  they  surveyed  each  other. 
' '  What  is  it  ?  "  she  demanded  of  the  servant  who  had 
entered. 

' '  The  superintendent  of  police  awaits  the  commands 
of  Madame  la  Marquise." 

"  Let  him  enter,"  she  said,  resuming  her  seat  and 
quietly  ignoring  Andre*. 

His  anger  grew  hot  again  as  he  observed  how  she 
took  for  granted  the  official's  humble  obedience. 

"  Study  that  lampoon,"  she  said,  tossing  him  a  fly- 
sheet.  "  You  must  discover  the  author  and  have  him 
punished." 

"  But  it  is  impossible,  Madame,"  the  superintendent 
replied  after  a  pause.  "I  have  no  power  to  arrest, 
still  less  to  punish,  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
Versailles." 

"  It  comes  from  the  palace,  then  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  come  from  Paris,"  the  official  answered 
drily. 

She  placed  the  paper  in  a  drawer.  For  a  few  seconds 
the  look  in  her  eyes  was  terrible.  "  You  have  the 
other  information  I  required  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  His  Majesty  last  night  was  closeted  with  his  private 


152  No,  101 

secretaries  till  half-past  ten.  At  a  quarter  to  eleven 
His  Majesty  walked  in  the  north  gallery  with  the 
Chevalier  de  St.  Amant.  At  eleven  they  met  the 
Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  leaving  her  Majesty's  apart- 
ments. The  Chevalier  spoke  to  her,  the  King  did  not. 
At  ten  minutes  past  eleven  His  Majesty  went  to  bed." 

Andre"  went  cold  as  ice  at  the  glib  report.  Denise 
was  right.  There  would  be  no  peace  till  this  woman 
had  been  hunted  from  her  place. 

"Good.  That  will  do,"  and  she  dismissed  the 
official.  Then  she  turned  her  chair. 

"  The  post  of  master  of  my  household  is  vacant," 
she  said.  "  It  is  the  King's  pleasure  that  it  be  filled 
by  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac." 

"I  beg  pardon,  Madame?"  Andre  questioned 
haughtily. 

She  calmly  repeated  the  sentence,  looking  him  full 
in  the  face. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  answered,  with  difficulty 
restraining  his  anger. 

' '  Nothing  that  the  King  of  France  is  pleased  to  com- 
mand a  subject  can  be  impossible,"  she  rejoined  almost 
sweetly. 

Andre  clenched  his  hands  and  held  his  tongue.  A 
gentleman  must  needs  accept  an  insult  even  from  a 
low-born  woman  with  the  dignity  due  to  himself. 

"It  is  the  King's  pleasure,"  she  proceeded  with  a 
flash  of  sarcasm,  "but  it  is  not  mine.  I  do  not 
choose  to  accept  the  services  of  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac." 


A  Royal  Grisette  153 

Andre  gave  her  a  look.  Had  she  been  a  man  she 
might  have  lived  twenty-four  hours,  certainly  no  more. 

' '  Has  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  any  further  observations 
to  offer?  No?  Then — "  she  made  the  pretence  of 
a  curtsey.  He,  Andre  de  Ne"rac,  a  Croix  of  St.  Louis 
and  a  Cordon  Bleu,  was  dismissed. 

An  icy  bow;  he  was  striding  to  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  leaves  the  Cordon  Bleu  on 
the  table,"  she  remarked,  but  Andre  in  his  rage  paid 
no  heed. 

"Mon  Dieu  /  "  a  caressing  laugh  caused  him  to  halt 
with  a  shiver.  "Mon  Dieu  !  so  you  have  forgotten  the 
little  vivandiere  at  Fontenoy?  Ah,  well,  it  is  no 
matter." 

Andre  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  past  swept  into  his 
eyes.  Was  he  bewitched  or 

"  But  I  have  not  forgotten,"  came  that  silvery  voice, 
"  see  the  proof,"  she  was  holding  up  the  Cordon  Bleu. 

' '  It  was  you — who, ' '  he  sat  down  overcome. 

"  To  be  sure.  Who  else  ?  I  am  a  good  actress,  am 
I  not  ?  Ah,  yes,  the  world  knows  I  can  act.  Paint 
and  powder,  a  red  jacket,  a  short  petticoat  with  boots 
half-way  to  the  knees.  Would  they  not  stare  in  the 
Galerie  des  Glaces  if  they  knew?"  She  tripped 
towards  him,  head  cocked  on  one  side,  hands  on  her 
hips.  "  The  Vicomte  will  not  betray  our  secret  for  all 
his  wrath.  '  It  is  impossible,  Madame,  impossible,'  ' 
she  was  mimicking  divinely  his  haughty  brevity. 
"Ah!  you  will  forgive  the  mvanditre  though  you 


154  No.  101 

cannot  forgive  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour.  Yes,  you 
did  me  a  service  that  night  for  which  I  have  repaid  you 
by  an  insult.  I  ask  your  pardon,  for  I  am  grateful." 

In  her  pleading  eyes  floated  a  wonderful  tenderness 
and  penitence. 

"And  every  minute,"  she  pursued  softly,  "  I  felt 
sure  you  must  recognise  me.  But  you  did  not.  My 
faith  !  soldiers  are  strange,  so  proud  and  fierce  and 
stupid— eh  ?  But  you  frightened  me,  upon  my  honour 
you  did.  I  tremble  still." 

Andre  stumbled  to  his  feet. 

"  I  am  in  your  power,"  she  whispered.  "  No  one 
but  you  knows  that  I  was  at  Fontenoy,  not  even  the 
King.  But  all  France  knows  that  the  Vicomte  de 
Nerac  saved  the  army,  though  they  have  not  learned 
it  was  at  the  bidding  of  a  vivanditre"  she  nodded,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  bewitching. 

"  It  is  amazing,"  he  cried,  bewildered,  "  amazing  !  " 

She  gently  closed  the  door  behind  him.  ' '  Perhaps, ' ' 
she  said.  "  But  have  you  forgotten  '  No.  101 '  ?  " 

For  eighteen  months  Andre"  had  not  heard  a  word 
of  that  traitor.  His  existence  had  been  blotted  from 
his  memory,  but  now  in  a  flash  the  scene  in  the  wood 
stormed  into  his  mind. 

"Ah  !  "  he  muttered.  "Ah  !  "  One  minute  of  the 
past  and  he  was  once  more  back  in  this  dainty  salon, 
though  his  anger  and  pride  were  melting  fast  before 
the  radiant  witchery  of  this  strange  woman  who  had 
conquered  a  king. 


A  Royal  Grisette  155 

"  The  treachery  of '  No.  101 '  has  begun  again,"  she 
was  saying  quietly.  "And  it  will  not  stop  this  time, 
I  have  good  reason  to  believe,  unless— I—"  she  broke 
off— "unless " 

Across  the  memory  of  the  charcoal-burner's  cabin  in 
the  grisly  wood  rang  Denise's  warning.  The  Cordon 
Bleu  gleamed  at  him  from  the  table.  And  Captain 
Statham  who  had  seen  the  traitor's  face  lay  dead  at 
his  feet.  Madame  smiled  softly  as  if  she  divined  the 
meaning  of  those  clenched  fingers,  the  lips  that  formed 
a  sentence  and  then  were  pressed  in  silence. 

Madame  briefly  recited  as  the  Abbe  had  done  in  the 
Salon  de  la  Paix  the  story  of  the  stolen  despatches  and 
the  courier's  fate  in  the  ditch  at  Vincennes.  "  It  is  the 
second  time  in  three  months,"  she  summed  up.  There 
will  be  a  third  before  long." 

"You  really  think  so?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  replied.  "  The  negotiations 
for  peace  have  commenced,  but  the  war  still  goes  on. 
This  black,  infernal  treachery  is  here  in  Versailles,  in 
our  midst,  for  the  prize  to  a  traitor  at  this  critical  time 
is  worth  a  king's  ransom.  It  is  maddening,  madden- 
ing— believe  me,  the  man  or  woman  who  lays  bare  the 
mystery  will  do  the  King  and  France  a  service  never 
to  be  forgotten.  And  His  Majesty  can  be  grateful." 

Andre's  ambitious  heart  throbbed  responsive  to  the 
skilful  touch. 

"  I  mean  to  discover  the  traitor.  I  foiled  him  at 
Fontenoy.  I  will  foil  him  again,  but,"  she  paused, 


156  No.  101 

"  a  woman  cannot  do  it  alone.  When  the  King  wrote 
to  me  before  I  came  to  Versailles,  ' Discret  et  Fiddle' 
was  his  motto.  I  want  to-day  a  friend  who  will  be 
ldiscret  et  fidZleJ  a  man  without  fear,  loyal,  ingenious, 
and  brave." 

Andre  raised  his  head  sharply.  The  thoughts 
were  coming  fast;  he  began  to  see  dimly,  to  hope,  to 
dream. 

"  I  confess,"  she  pursued,  "  that  I  thought  the  Vi- 
comte  de  Nerac  might  be  that  man,  my  man.  But  it 
is  impossible,  impossible." 

' '  Why,  Madame  ?  ' '  He  was  leaning  eagerly  across 
the  table. 

' '  Why  ? ' '  She  laughed  softly.  ' '  Because  the  Mar- 
quise de  Pompadour  is  a  bourgeoise,  a  heartless,  selfish, 
intriguing  wanton,  and  she  can  find  many  who  will 
serve  her,  who  will  write  ballades  to  her  eyes  and  son- 
nets to  her  bosom,  and  then  behind  her  back  will  scrib- 
ble the  foul  libels  that  the  soldiers  sang  at  Fontenoy. 
But  the  Court,  the  Queen,  the  Dauphin,  the  bishops 
and  priests,  the  libertines  and  the  dSvots,  the  ministers 
and  the  great  ladies  are  leagued  in  hate  against  me. 
It  is  true,  is  it  not  ?  ' ' 

And  Andre  could  not  answer. 

' '  So  long  as  I  have  the  King  on  my  side  I  am  safe. 
But  this  palace  is  a  labyrinth  of  intrigue.  If  the  King 
grows  weary  I  shall  be  fortunate  to  leave  Versailles  a 
free  woman.  And  by  my  ruin  those  of  my  service 
will  be  ruined  too.  The  task  I  mean  to  perform  is 


A  Royal  Grisette  157 

doubly  dangerous — there  is  the  Court  and  there  is  'No. 
10 1.'  Yes,  it  is  no  task  for  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac." 

The  gentle  voice  cut  like  a  whip.  Andre  began  to 
pace  up  and  down. 

"  You  are  young,  my  friend."  She  was  looking  at 
him  as  she  had  looked  when  she  slipped  the  pillow 
beneath  his  head  at  Fontenoy.  "You  are  brave,  a 
soldier  with  great  ambitions  and  a  great  future,  for  you 
have  the  heart  and  courage  of  your  race.  You  are  of 
the  noblesse,  your  world  is  not  of  this  salon,  but  of  the 
Salon  de  la  Paix.  Your  friends,  your  blood,  have 
declared  war  upon  me;  for  a  traitor  to  their  cause  they 
will  have  no  mercy.  True  the  King  has  commanded 
your  services  in  my  household,  but  Antoinette  d'Kti- 
olles,  who  is  grateful  for  what  you  did  at  Fontenoy, 
refuses  to  accept  because  she  would  not  ruin,  I  cannot 
say  a  friend,  but  a  noble  hero  of  France." 

Remorse,  ambition,  the  witchery  of  her  beauty,  his 
love  for  Denise,  strove  for  mastery  within  him. 

"Adieu,"  she  whispered,  "  you  must  go  your  way, 
I  mine.  We  shall  meet,  perhaps.  How  long  I  shall 
be  here  God  knows.  But  trust  me,  I  will  see  that 
your  refusal  to  accept  the  King's  pleasure  shall  do  you 
no  harm.  You  will  succeed,  you  must,  for  fortune, 
birth,  and  manhood  are  on  your  side.  Adieu  !  " 

"  But,  Madame — "  he  cried  impulsively. 

"  No,  Vicomte,  no.  It  is  impossible.  A  man  may 
sacrifice  himself,  but  never— never  must  he  sacrifice  his 
love." 


158  No.  101 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  sympathetic  signifi- 
cance. She  had  divined  his  secret.  Andr6  felt  the 
blood  scarlet  as  his  uniform  in  his  cheeks.  Denise — 
yes,  Denise  blocked  the  way  to  the  future  this  enchant- 
ress had  dreamed  for  him,  nay,  that  he  had  dreamed 
for  himself. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  slowly,  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  But  Andre"  de  Nerac  is  not 
ungrateful." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  smiled.  "  Take  your  Cordon  Bleu. 
It  is  none  the  less  deserved  because  it  was  asked  for 
by  a  vivandiere.  Will  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  permit? 
Yes  ?  "  she  had  pinned  it  to  his  breast.  Her  face  was 
very  close  to  his  ;  the  flattery  in  those  wonderful  eyes 
caressed  his  inmost  soul.  "  See,"  she  whispered. 

"  This  way — it  is  safer  for  you." 

She  lifted  the  curtain  over  an  alcove  revealing  a  nar- 
row staircase  down  to  a  dark  passage.  "At  the  bot- 
tom you  will  find  to  the  left  a  door  locked;  here  is  the 
key.  By  that  private  door  you  can  return  to  the  public 
galleries.  The  dark  passage  leads  to  the  King's  and 
the  Queen's  private  apartments.  The  King,  or  indeed 
any  one  who  has  the  key,  can  come  this  way  unknown 
to  the  spies  of  the  ministers  or  of  the  Court.  Remem- 
ber, there  are  only  two  keys;  the  King  has  one,  this  is 
the  other.  Keep  it;  you  may  want  it." 

"  Want  it?  "  he  repeated,  confused. 

"  The  Vicomte,"  she  corrected  gently,  "  henceforth 
cannot  without  harming  himself  visit  publicly  a  dour- 


A  Royal  Grisette  159 

geoise  grisette.  But  he  will  remember  that  in  Antoi- 
nette de  Pompadour  he  has,  if  he  will  hut  believe  it,  a 
true  and  grateful  friend.  If  he  is  in  trouble  or  in  diffi- 
culty the  key  will  show  him  the  way  and  no  one  will 
be  wiser.  If  not,  it  is  no  matter." 

"  But,  Madame,  why  should  I  be  in  trouble  ?  " 

She  laughed  mysteriously.  "Anything,  as  the  Vi- 
comte  well  knows,  can  happen  at  Versailles.  Adieu  ! ' ' 

And  yet  she  lingered.  "  The  Cordon  Bleu  was  from 
the  King,"  she  said;  "  accept  this,  pray,  from  me;  it 
is  the  handkerchief,  the  famous  handkerchief  of  the 
H6tel  de  Ville,  and  it  comes  from  my  heart."  She 
had  tossed  it  to  him  with  an  airy  kiss  blown  from  her 
jewelled  fingers. 

What  a  charming  picture  she  made,  framed  in  the 
darkness  there  with  her  heliotrope  robe  drawn  back  to 
avoid  the  dripping  of  the  candle  held  above  her  dainty 
head.  Un  morceau  de  roi^parbleu  ! 

"Remember  'No.  101.'  Adieu."  The  soft  echo 
stole  into  the  chill  passage.  The  Marquise  had 
dropped  the  curtain  and  Andr6  was  alone  with  his 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  THE  VICOMTE  DE  NERAC  SAW  IN  THE  SECRET 
PASSAGE 

ANDREA  sat  down  on  the  stairs  in  the  dark.  It  is 
perhaps  not  surprising  that  his  first  thoughts  were  of 
"  No.  101."  Across  his  path  had  fallen  for  the  second 
time  the  shadow  of  that  baleful,  blood-stained  mystery. 
So  far  all  who  had  tried  to  run  the  traitor  to  earth  had 
failed ;  but  when  war  and  peace,  the  King's  policy 
and  the  destinies  of  France,  hung  in  the  balance  suc- 
cess in  the  task  meant  a  great  reward.  That  masked 
woman  in  the  wood  had  bafHed  him.  Vanity,  a  pas- 
sionate curiosity,  the  spell  of  the  mystery,  patriotism, 
once  more  united  to  kindle  his  longing  to  succeed 
where  all  had  failed.  But  to  attempt  it  alone  or  without 
money  or  information  was  out  of  the  question.  To 
invite  the  co-operation  of  his  friends  in  this  Versailles 
of  intrigue  and  counter-intrigue,  of  jealousy  and 
selfishness,  spelled  certain  failure.  With  Madame  de 
Pompadour's  help  alone  it  might  be  done,  but  that  was 
impossible,  doubly  impossible.  Madame  was  right. 
A  De  Nerac,  a  Croix  de  St.  L,ouis,  and  a  Cordon  Bleu 

160 


What  the  Vicomte  de  Ndrac  Saw     161 

could  not  enter  the  service  of  a  bourgeoise  favourite, 
here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow,  could  not  defy  his 
class,  the  Queen  and  the  Court,  could  not  outrage  his 
own  dignity.  Denise  would  spurn  him  for  ever.  Sac- 
rifice his  love  ?  no,  a  thousand  times  no !  Still  less 
could  he  return  now  a  suppliant  for  the  Pompadour's 
favours :  she  who  had  refused  his  aid ;  he  who  had 
scorned  her  offer.  Yet — yes,  yet  with  what  delicacy 
and  sympathy  she  had  atoned  for  her  apparent  inso- 
lence. No  woman,  not  Denise  herself,  could  have 
shown  her  gratitude  with  more  grace  and  conviction. 
An  adventuress  she  was  maybe,  but  a  true  woman  for 
all  that,  and  as  charming  as  beautiful.  Name  of  a 
dog  !  The  faint  perfume  of  that  dainty  handkerchief, 
which  had  made  history,  subtly  recalled  the  intoxicat- 
ing flattery  of  her  eyes,  the  tender  gratitude  of  her  voice. 
The  King — Andre  laughed  softly — the  King  was  no  fool 
when  he  was  conquered  by  Antoinette  d'Etiolles.  And 
he  had  her  key  ;  well,  he  would  see  about  that  key. 

His  mind  travelled  to  the  thought  of  Denise.  He 
had  sworn  to  win  her;  he  loved  her,  his  beautiful  Mar- 
quise de  Beau  Sejour,  for  was  she  not  what  the  wife  of 
a  De  Nerac  should  be— fair,  noble,  and  pure?  The 
scandalous  tongues  of  the  Court  rendered  her  the 
homage  of  silence.  She  was  the  type  to  him  of  what 
France,  the  France  for  which  he  fought,  could  be. 
Did  not  there  burn  in  her  soul  the  inspiring  flame  of 
patriotism,  duty,  and  high  endeavour  which  she,  as 
he,  owed  to  her  lineage  and  to  God  ? 


162  No.  101 

Well,  well,  to-morrow  would  bring  counsel.  He 
rose  to  grope  his  way  to  the  locked  door.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
What  was  this  ? 

The  door  was  opening  stealthily.  Some  one  was 
coming  in.  The  King  ?  Of  course.  Andre  softly  flew 
up  the  stairs  and  crouched  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain. 
If  the  King  was  coming  to  the  Pompadour  he  was  lost, 
but  caught  as  he  was  in  this  dark  corridor  it  was  his 
only  chance  of  concealment. 

A  light  from  a  hand  lamp  flickered  into  the  darkness. 
Ah !  that  was  not  the  King's  step;  nor  did  the  King 
hum  gay  songs  under  his  breath.  Ho  !  ho  !  an  adven- 
ture !  Madame' s  key  was  worth  the  owning  after  all. 

As  he  lived,  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,  a  rose  be- 
tween his  lips,  hat  cocked  jauntily,  his  slim,  boyish 
figure  instinct  with  an  abandoned  grace.  Pooh  !  he 
was  the  King's  private  secretary  and  the  royal  key  had 
been  given  him  by  his  master  for  his  own  purposes. 
This  was  very  interesting  and  mightily  droll. 

Andre  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  door  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage  had  quietly 
opened.  Some  one  with  a  lamp  was  standing  awaiting 
the  Chevalier.  A  woman  !  Yes,  the  light  fell  with  a 
gleam  on  the  folds  of  her  dress,  on  the  jewel  on  her 
breast.  The  gay  young  dog  to  use  his  royal  master's 
key  in  this  way.  What  adorable  audacity  ! 

The  woman  held  up  the  lamp  with  a  familiar  gesture. 
Denise  !  By  God  it  was  Denise  ! 

One  choking  moment  and  then  Andre  turned  stone- 


What  the  Vicomte  de  N6rac  Saw     163 

cold.  Denise,  his  Denise !  Mechanically  he  wiped 
the  perspiration  from  his  brow  as  he  stared  spellbound. 
Denise ! 

The  Chevalier  doffed  his  hat,  kissed  her  hand,  took 
the  lamp  from  her,  and  once  more  Andre"  was  alone  in 
the  darkness,  gnawed  by  impotent  and  implacable 
rage,  jealousy  black  and  hot  as  hell. 

But  what  did  it  mean — in  heaven's  name  what  did 
it  mean  ?  And  the  Chevalier  ?  Ah,  if  it  had  not  been 
his  Denise  ! 

Only  by  the  sternest  self-control  did  he  prevent  him- 
self from  dashing  after  them.  Pure  madness,  for  that 
door  was  certainly  locked.  He  must  wait  here  if  he 
waited  till  Doomsday.  It  seemed  an  eternity — in 
reality  it  was  about  half-an-hour — and  then  the  Chev- 
alier reappeared  alone  and  still  jauntily  humming  his 
j>ong  stealthily  let  himself  out,  ignorant,  poor  boy,  that 
only  a  noble's  refusal  to  stab  in  cold  blood  like  a  com- 
mon footpad  had  saved  him  from  staining  the  floor  of 
this  dark  corridor  with  his  life's  blood. 

Here  was  a  fresh  mystery.  This  cursed  Versailles 
with  its  infamies  and  plots,  its  libertines  and  intriguers, 
its  cabals,  cliques,  and  conspiracies!  "No.  101," 
Yvonne,  the  crystal -gazer,  Madame  de  Pompadour, 
war,  treachery,  and  the  Chevalier — in  what  cruel  toils 
was  his  life  set ;  but  this  last  was  the  rudest  shock  of 
all.  Andre  could  have  cried  aloud  in  sheer  perplexity 
at  the  riddles  that  beset  him  on  every  side. 

He  took  out  the  key.     The  touch  of  the  cool  steel 


164  No.  101 

on  his  feverish  fingers  sent  a  thrill  through  him.  Ah! 
Madame  had  given  him  this  key;  she  had  ushered  him 
out  this  way.  He  had  wondered  why.  Because  she 
was  grateful  ?  No.  It  was  clear  now — clear  as  day- 
light. She  knew  the  secrets  of  this  hateful  corridor 
and  she  desired  him  to  see  for  himself.  Could  it  be 
possible  ?  Yes,  yes ;  it  must  be.  A  swift  decision 
stormed  into  his  mind. 

Cautiously  he  let  himself  out.  The  public  gallery 
was  empty,  but  as  he  strode  towards  the  stables  he 
was  startled  to  meet  Denise  hurrying  to  the  Queen's 
apartments. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  inspecting  her  closely,  "  tell  me,  if 
you  please,  where  I  can  find  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant?" 

Denise  gazed  at  his  bronzed,  inscrutable  face  with 
astonishment — or  was  it  fear  ? 

"  I  was  informed,"  Andre  said  carelessly,  "  that  he 
had  been  seen  in  your  company  going  towards  the 
King's  apartments — a  mistake,  no  doubt.  The  Cheva- 
lier is  probably  with  His  Majesty.  It  is  a  pity,  for " 

"  But  the  King,"  Denise  interrupted  hastily,  "  is  not 
in  his  private  apartments ;  neither  is  the  Chevalier 
there." 

Andr6  calmly  studied  her.  "Ah,  Mademoiselle," 
he  laughed,  "  I  see  you  are  well  informed.  I  must 
seek  the  Chevalier  elsewhere."  He  turned  away. 

"And  will  you  not  tell  me  of  what  passed — "  Denise 
had  begun. 


What  the  Vicomte  de  Ndrac  Saw     165 

"  I  regret  infinitely  that  I  have  pressing  business, 
Mademoiselle.  To-morrow,  if  you  will  be  so  kind," 
and  he  smilingly  bid  her  good-night. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  galloping  through  the 
woods  to  "  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold."  Some- 
thing useful  for  his  new  resolve  might  possibly  be 
learned  there,  and  every  clue  would  help  now. 

The  inn  that  looked  like  a  farmhouse  buried  in  the 
woods  wore  as  deserted  an  air  as  it  had  worn  eighteen 
months  ago,  and  in  answer  to  his  imperious  knock 
there  appeared  the  chambermaid  with  the  shifty  eyes, 
who  stared  in  fear  and  surprise  at  this  officer  in  his 
faded  uniform  and  muddy  boots  who  demanded 
entrance  in  the  dark  hours  of  the  night. 

"  My  mistress,  the  wise  woman,  is  not  here,  sir," 
she  replied  pettishly,  half  closing  the  door  in  Andr6's 
face. 

' '  When  will  she  be  here  ?  ' ' 

"  Never  again,  Monsieur.     She  has  left." 

Andre  promptly  pushed  his  way  into  the  passage  and 
closed  the  door.  The  girl  uttered  a  suppressed  shriek. 
"Are  you  of  the  police,  sir?"  she  whimpered.  "I 
know  nothing,  nothing;  I  swear  it." 

"  I  am  not  of  the  police,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  am  a 
friend  of  your  mistress.  See  that  gold  piece  ;  you  shall 
have  it  if  you  will  tell  me  all  you  know." 

The  girl  looked  slowly  round.  "  I  do  not  know 
where  she  is,  my  mistress,"  she  said.  '  Three  days 
ago  there  came  an  English  gentleman " 


1 66  No.  101 

"  English?  "  he  interrupted  sharply. 

"  But  yes.  Madame  said  he  was  English.  He  saw 
her — he  went  away.  Yesterday  Madam  left ;  she  will 
come  no  more.  She  is  gone,  perhaps,  to  England.  I 
do  not  know,  I  swear." 

Andre  reflected.  Yes,  it  was  more  than  possible  that 
"  the  princess"  had  returned  to  England. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  demanded  next,  "why  she 
left?" 

"  Because,"  her  voice  dropped,  "  she  feared  the 
vengeance  of  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour." 

Andre  vividly  recollected  the  scene  when  he  had 
come  to  consult  the  crystal-gazer.  The  girl  was  not 
lying. 

"And  you  know  nothing  more?  " 

"  Nothing,  Monsieur." 

She  took  the  gold  piece  greedily.  Andre  had  his 
foot  in  the  stirrup  when  a  thought  struck  him. 

' '  Tell  me, ' '  he  asked  persuasively,  ' '  why  you 
thought  I  was  of  the  police  ?  ' ' 

The  girl  beckoned  him  within  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  the  superintendent  of  police  has  twice 
been  here  this  week  to  inquire  about  my  mistress," 
she  answered  softly.  "  This  very  morning  he  was 
here.  He  would  know  everything  would  monsieur  the 
superintendent.  But  he  does  not  pay  and  he  learned 
nothing,  nothing,  I  swear."  She  laughed  knowingly. 

Andre"  mounted  and  rode  away.  Fate  was  against 
him.  Well,  it  could  not  be  helped  now.  And  the 


What  the  Vicomte  de  N6rac  Saw     167 

news  of  that  English  gentleman  and  the  inquiries 
of  the  police  were  disquieting.  What  were  English 
gentlemen  doing  at  "The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of 
Gold ' '  when  England  was  at  war  with  France  ?  No 
wonder  the  police,  the  Marquise's  friend  in  particular, 
were  prowling  about  so  suspicious  an  inn.  No  won- 
der the  crystal-gazer  had  taken  to  flight. 

' '  Who  is  that  ? ' '  cried  a  boyish  voice.  A  galloping 
horse  had  suddenly  pulled  up  beside  Andre"' s.  You, 
Vicomte,  you  !  The  very  man  that  is  wanted." 

Andre  had  at  the  sudden  challenge  whipped  out  his 
sword  to  defend  himself.  He  now  peered  through  the 
gloom. 

"Chevalier,  you  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  intense  suspicion 
and  annoyance. 

"Yes,  I,  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant.  I  am  in  luck. 
There  's  the  devil's  own  business  here." 

"What  is  it?"  Andre"  demanded  angrily.  To  be 
detected  in  this  wood  by  the  Chevalier,  of  all  men,  was 
maddening. 

"  Treachery,"  said  the  Chevalier  briefly. 

"Treachery?" 

St.  Amant  was  excited.  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  Paris 
by  the  King's  orders  to  overtake  a  courier.  I  took 
the  short  cut  through  this  wood;  you  know  it  doubt- 
less. I  hear  a  groan,  I  dismount,  and  there  is  the 
courier  in  the  ditch,  tied  hand  and  foot,  gagged  too, 
poor  devil,  and  his  despatches  gone." 

' '  Gone  ?  "     A  shiver  ran  down  Andrews  back. 


i68  No.  101 

"  Clean  as  a  whistle.  The  idiot  had  taken  the  short 
cut,  too.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out  he  was  attacked 
from  behind,  stunned,  and  robbed.  Will  you  help  to 
bring  the  poor  wretch  back  to  Versailles,  for  I  must  go 
on  to  Paris  ? ' ' 

Andre  sat  appalled.  "Of  course,"  he  replied 
presently. 

"This  is  the  Vincennes  affair  over  again,"  the 
Chevalier  remarked  when  they  had  unbound  the 
courier  and  set  him  on  Andr6's  horse.  "  It  is  devilish 
this  treachery,  devilish  and  amazing." 

De  Nerac  nodded.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  discuss 
anything  with  anybody  just  now,  least  of  all  with  the 
Chevalier  de  St.  Amant. 

The  young  man  had  mounted.  "  I  am  very  sorry," 
he  said,  "  that  I  cannot  offer  to  accompany  you,  but 
the  King's  orders  were  urgent  and  I  am  already  late. 
Good-night,  Vicomte." 

Andre  bowed  stiffly. 

"  If  I  might  suggest,"  the  Chevalier  added  in  the 
friendliest  way,  ' '  it  would  be  well  to  say  nothing  of 
this  damnable  business  until  the  King  has  been  in- 
formed in  the  morning." 

"  I  thank  you,"  Andre"  replied  coldly.  "  I  had 
already  intended  to  wait  until  His  Majesty  had  heard 
the  story  from  your  lips." 

"Good.  I  shall  be  back  at  dawn."  The  Chevalier 
spurred  away. 

As  De  Nerac  rode  slowly  back  the  Marquise's  words 


What  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  Saw     169 

rang  in  his  ears — "This  is  the  second  time  in  three 
months.  There  will  be  a  third  before  long."  The 
third  had  already  come,  and  as  usual  like  a  thief  in  the 
night.  Confound  "  No.  101  "  !  Confound  the  Cheva- 
lier de  St.  Amant ! 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  go  to  bed.  He  would  walk 
in  one  of  the  galleries  until  he  had  eased  himself  of  all 
the  black  thoughts  and  fears,  until  he  could  see  a  path 
through  the  thickets  into  which  fate  had  plunged  him. 

A  party  of  his  friends  was  still  playing  at  dice,  and 
as  Andre  passed  through  the  room  they  stared  at  his 
muddy  riding  boots  in  amused  surprise. 

"  You  have  news  ?  "  cried  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge. 

"Yes,"  Andre  retorted  curtly,  "bad  news  which 
you  will  learn  later." 

"  What  the  devil  has  he  been  doing  ?  "  he  heard  St. 
Ben6it  exclaim  as  Andr6  sharply  left  the  room. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  Mont  Rouge  laughed.  "  He  has 
already  begun  to  do  the  dirty  work  of  that  grisette." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  St.  Ben6it  demanded. 

"She  is  going  to  make  him  master  of  her  house- 
hold." 

"De  Ne>ac?  Master  of  the  Pompadour's  house- 
hold ?  Impossible  !  "  A  dozen  voices  protested,  and 
the  dice  boxes  ceased  to  rattle. 

"Wait  and  you  will  see,"  Mont  Rouge's  cynical 
tones  replied. 

"  Where  and  how  did  you  learn  this?  "  St.  Ben6it 
asked,  aghast. 


170  No.  101 

"  The  Comtesse  des  Forges  told  me,"  Mont  Rouge 
answered.  "She  is  in  the  confidence  of  St.  Amant, 
who  as  we  all  know  is  the  King's  most  confidential 
secretary." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Oh,  well !  "  Andre,  who  had  caught  his  friend's 
denial,  halted  involuntarily  behind  the  door,  picturing 
to  himself  Mont  Rouge's  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
Well,  it  was  only  one  more  item  in  a  long  account,  an 
account  that  would  be  settled  some  day. 

"  If  it  is  true,"  said  the  Abbe"  St.  Victor,  "  that  De 
N6rac  has  sold  himself,  he  will  be  ruined  when  she  is 
ruined.  It  is  a  pity,  but  he  will  deserve  it." 

Ruined?  Andre  laughed  the  laugh  of  a  reckless 
gambler  staking  his  last  piece.  Ruined  ?  They  would 
see. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TWO   PAGES   IN  THE   BOOK  OF 

THE  curtain  over  the  alcove  was  very  cautiously 
lifted.  Madame  de  Pompadour  looked  up  from  her 
papers.  "  Good  afternoon,  Vicomte,"  she  smiled.  "I 
was  expecting  you  ;  you  observe  I  am  alone." 

"Expecting  me,  Madame?"  Andre"  demanded, 
astonished. 

;<  To  be  sure,  expecting  you  to  report  your  account 
of  this  baffling  affair  in  the  woods  with  which  all  Ver- 
sailles rings  and  to  return  my  key." 

"  I  know  nothing  but  what  everybody  knows  of  the 
matter,  nor  am  I  here  to  return  your  key,  but  to  keep 
it."  Madame  studied  him  with  calm  satisfaction. 
"  Yes,  Marquise,  I  am  here  because  I  have  decided  to 
enter  your  service." 

The  lady  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed. 
"  But  it  is  impossible,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  she  replied 
lightly.  "  His  Majesty  has  already  appointed  a  master 
of  my  household."  She  rose  and  looked  into  his  face, 
stern  with  a  determination  born  of  a  prolonged  inward 
struggle.  "  You  are  disappointed.  I  thank  you  for 

171 


172  No.  101 

the  compliment.  No  matter,  we  will  arrange  it 
another  way,  you  and  I." 

"  Will  Madame  kindly  explain?" 

"  You  have  reflected  on  our  chat  yesterday?"  she 
asked.  ' '  Yes  ?  You  have  counted  the  cost  ?  ' '  Andre 
bowed  in  silence.  "  Good.  I  do  not  ask  your  reasons; 
they  are  your  affair,  and  the  Vicomte  does  not  act  with 
his  eyes  shut.  But  I  am  rejoiced,  my  friend  ;  I  could 
sing  with  pleasure.  To  the  entente  cordiale  and  to  our 
success."  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  in  the  sunshine 
of  her  gaze  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Now  listen.  I  have  thought  it  all  out.  To  the 
world  of  Versailles  we  are  for  the  future  deadly  en- 
emies, you  and  I.  You  have  offended  me.  I  have 
insulted  you.  What  could  be  more  natural  ?  Already 
the  idle  tongues  chatter  in  the  galleries  that  the 
Vicomte  de  N6rac  has  refused  to  accept  the  King's 
pleasure  and  that  Madame  is  in  tears  of  rage.  That 
is  my  inspiration,  you  understand.  But  you  will  still 
keep  my  key  and  be  in  my  service  without  any  of  the 
disgrace — eh?  Mon  Dieu  it  will  be  droll." 

Andr£  smiled  in  admiration  of  her  finesse.  A 
genius  this  marquise. 

1 '  But  perhaps  I  shall  not  be  in  Versailles, ' '  he  said 
after  a  pause. 

"  lyeave  it  to  me,"  she  retorted  gaily.  "I  have 
already  provided  for  that.  It  is  my  little  secret — a 
vivandtire'  s  secret . ' ' 

She  began  slowly  to  roll  up  the  plans  on  her  table. 


Two  Pages  in  the  Book  of  Life     173 

Andre's  eye  caught  one  of  the  sheets.  "Ah,  you 
recognise  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  be  sure.     It  is  the  Chateau  de  Beau  Sejour." 

"  Yes ;  and  what  the  King  can  give  the  King  can 
take  away,"  she  replied  with  her  mysterious  smile. 
"  Mademoiselle  Denise— patience,  my  friend,  and  hear 
me  out — is  very  beautiful  and  very  noble.  It  is  better 
for  women  who  can  afford  it  to  be  content  with  love, 
their  beauty,  and  their  noblesse,  and  to  leave  politics 
alone.  Politics,  intrigue  are  a  very  dangerous  game, 
particularly  for  young  ladies.  Mademoiselle  would 
find  some  very  instructive  lessons  as  to  that  in  the  his- 
tory of  her  chateau.  It  might  well  be  that  the  King 
might  desire  a  second  time  to  confer  Beau  Sejour  on  a 
servant  who  had  rendered  precious  service  to  his  Sov- 
ereign. And,"  she  added,  throwing  up  her  head,  "  I 
hope  Mademoiselle  will  learn  that  I  will  not  be 
thwarted  in  my  plans  by  a  girl  even  though  she  has 
forty  marshals  of  France  in  her  pedigree." 

Andre  listened  in  silence,  but  the  colour  in  his 
bronzed  cheeks  revealed  the  strong  emotion  within. 

"And  now  to  business."  Madame  had  almost  un- 
sexed  herself.  The  woman's  charm  and  grace  melted 
into  a  masculine,  alert,  and  bracing  keenness.  She 
beckoned  to  Andr6  to  draw  his  chair  up  to  the  table. 
"  '  No.  ioi,'  that  is  our  affair.  After  last  night  it  is 
more  imperative  than  ever  the  mystery  should  be  laid 
bare.  And  it  is  clear  that  the  treachery  starts  from 
Versailles.  You  agree  ? ' ' 


174  No.  101 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"Good.  The  clues  unfortunately  are  very  slight. 
But  not  far  from  the  palace  is  an  inn  called  '  The  Cock 
with  the  Spurs  of  Gold' — you  know  it?"  she  ques- 
tioned sharply. 

"I  was  there  eighteen  months  ago,"  he  replied, 
recovering  himself. 

"  No  doubt  on  the  same  foolish  errand  as  all  of  us. 
But  the  crystal-gazer  has  vanished  and  cannot  be 
traced.  It  is  no  matter.  We  have  to  do  with  another 
woman,  a  country  wench  called  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless 
Ankles " 

"  Yvonne?  "     He  controlled  himself  with  difficulty. 

"A  curious  name  for  a  peasant  wench,  is  it  not? 
Well,  I  am  convinced  that  this  Yvonne  in  some  way 
yet  to  be  fathomed  is  connected  with  this  infernal 
treachery.  The  police  can  discover  nothing  but  to  her 
credit;  the  police,  of  course,  are  fools.  Vicomte,  it  is 
your  task  to  master  Yvonne's  secret." 

Andr6's  fingers  tapped  on  the  table. 

"  You  are  a  man,  a  soldier,  a  lover,"  Madame  con- 
tinued in  her  cool  voice.  "You  understand  women. 
She  is  a  peasant,  you  are  a  noble.  A  woman  who 
loves  will  tell  everything.  You  take  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly."  He  rose  and  began  abruptly  to  pace 
up  and  down  as  he  always  did  when  his  thoughts  over- 
mastered him.  Madame  consulted  her  tablets. 

"And  then  there  is  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant," 
she  resumed,  and  Andre"  came  to  a  dead  halt.  "  He 


Two  Pages  in  the  Book  of  Life     175 

and  I  do  not  love  one  another.  The  King  has  his 
secrets  from  his  ministers,  from  his  valet,  from  me, 
secrets  of  policy,  and  of  his  private  life.  The  Chevalier 
is  the  King's  creature,  his  confidant,  and  he  is  ambi- 
tious. He  fears  my  influence,  he  is  an  adventurer,  a 
parvenu.  When  he  has  destroyed  me  the  hand  of 
Mademoiselle  Denise  will  wipe  out  his  antecedents,  will 
by  a  stroke  of  the  King's  pen  make  him  ruler  of 
France  and  one  of  its  greatest  nobles.  But,"  she  rose, 
"  he  shall  not,  he  shall  not." 

"  No,"  said  Andre  in  a  low  voice,  "  by  God  he  shall 
not!" 

Madame  smiled.  "  It  is  your  task  and  mine,"  she 
added,  ' '  to  defeat,  to  crush,  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant." 

"  Yes,"  said  Andre"  simply. 

"  We  are  engaged  on  a  perilous  task.  There  is  a 
plot,  more  than  one,  on  foot  to  drive  me  from  Ver- 
sailles. And  they  are  all  in  it,  the  Queen  and  her  ladies, 
monseigneurs  the  archbishops  and  bishops,  the  Dau- 
phin and  the  princesses  of  the  blood,  the  ministers, 
the  nobles,  the  army,  even  the  King's  valet.  In  the 
council,  the  galleries,  the  royal  study,  even  the  King's 
bedroom,  day  and  night  they  are  scheming  and  in- 
triguing. It  will  be  a  duel  to  the  death — one  woman 
against  the  Queen,  the  Church,  the  ministers,  and  the 
noblesse,  but  he  who  will  decide  is  the  King." 

She  flung  her  arms  up  with  a  superbly  dramatic 
gesture.  Standing  there  in  the  triumphant  conscious- 


1 76  No.  101 

ness  of  her  beauty  she  would  have  moved  the  most 
merciless  of  her  critics  to  admiration.  And  the  man 
who  would  decide  was  I^ouis  XV. 

"  He  is  strange,  the  King,"  she  mused  as  if  she  had 
forgotten  Andre,  ' '  how  strange  but  few  can  guess — at 
one  moment  the  slave  of  his  passion,  at  another  burn- 
ing with  a  king's  ambition,  at  a  third  indolent  and 
dull,  at  a  fourth  consumed  by  remorse,  tortured  by  fear 
of  God  and  the  pains  of  hell.  The  ennui  of  a  royal 
life,  that  is  his  bane.  The  woman  who  can  amuse  him, 
keep  him  from  himself,  he  will  never  desert.  And  I 
will  be  that  woman.  My  beauty  will  fade,  but  give 
me  first  five  years— five  years  as  I  am  to-day — and  it 
will  be  death  alone  that  will  separate  the  King  and  me." 

"And  you  will  rule  France,  Marquise?  " 

She  wheeled  with  a  flash  of  fire.  ' '  Yes, ' '  she  said, 
"  I  will  rule  France  through  the  King." 

There  was  silence.  Madame  leaned  against  the 
carved  mantelpiece ;  her  eyes  passed  over  the  salon 
with  its  wealth  and  its  refinement  out  into  the  meas- 
ureless spaces  of  the  future,  to  the  rosy  peaks  known 
only  to  the  dreams  of  ambition. 

"Paris,"  she  murmured,  "calls  me  happy,  for- 
tunate, listen,"  and  she  recited: 

"  Pompadour,  vous  embellissez 
La  cour,  Parnasse  et  Cyth£re. 

"M.  de  Voltaire  is  a  poet.  The  homage  of  the  poets, 
the  philosophers,  the  artists,  the  wits,  the  homage  of 
the  world  to  her  beauty,  the  love  of  a  king — what  can 


Two  Pages  in  the  Book  of  Life     177 

a  woman  desire  more  ?  I  have  them  to-day,  but  shall 
I  keep  them  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  do  they  reflect,  these  mere 
men  and  women,  what  it  costs  to  keep  them  ?  My 
life  is  a  martyrdom.  A  false  step,  a  stupid  word,  to 
be  gay  when  I  should  be  silent,  to  be  dull  when  I 
should  be  gay — these  may  hurl  me  from  my  place. 
And  the  intrigues !  The  intrigues !  Vicomte,  I  de- 
clare to  you  that  at  night  I  lie  awake  reckoning  with 
tears  what  the  day  has  accomplished,  wrestling  with 
what  to-morrow  may  bring.  Heartless,  frivolous,  and 
false  are  my  foes.  Is  it  surprising  that  I  too  should 
be  heartless,  frivolous,  false  ?  But  I  would  not  change 
my  lot.  No  !  Better  far  one  year  with  the  cup  of 
pleasure  at  one's  lips  ;  better  far  one  glorious  year  in 
Versailles  of  passion  and  power,  than  an  eternity  of 
that  life  I  knew  as  Madame  d'Etiolles.  Yes;  if  in 
twelve  months  I  must  pay  the  price  at  the  Bastille  I 
would  drink  now  to  the  full  the  joys  of  an  uncrowned 
queen  of  France." 

She  sat  down  overpowered  by  the  visions  of  her  own 
spirit. 

And  Andre  listened  with  a  unique  thrill  of  awe, 
torn  by  conflicting  emotions.  Of  his  own  free  will  he 
had  asked  for  her  help  because  his  ambitions  thrust 
the  sacrifice  on  him.  Away  from  her  presence  he  re- 
called with  a  shiver  a  word,  a  gesture,  a  look,  that 
spoke  of  a  cold  selfishness,  even  of  an  insolent  vul- 
garity, so  strangely  blended  with  such  grace,  charm, 
and  sympathy.  Her  low  birth,  her  position  at  Ver- 


T;8  No.  101 

sallies,  stirred  in  him  the  contempt  that  was  the  herit- 
age of  eight  centuries  of  noble  ancestors.  But  once 
face  to  face  with  her  all  his  misgivings,  all  his  scorn  and 
dislike,  melted  away.  And  he  dimly  felt  that  her  vic- 
tory was  no  mere  triumph  of  a  beautiful  and  gifted 
woman  over  a  man's  passion,  the  appeal  of  the  flesh  to 
the  flesh,  such  as  he  knew  and  had  yielded  to  so  often. 
This  was  no  mere  idol  of  a  royal  and  fleeting  devotion, 
no  mere  splendid  courtesan  of  Nature's  making;  it  was 
the  breath  of  the  human  spirit  to  the  human  spirit, 
blowing  with  the  divine  mystery  of  the  wind  where  it 
listed  on  the  answering  spaces  of  the  sea.  And  the 
soaring  sweep  of  her  ambition  awoke  in  his  soul  ambi- 
tions not  less  daring  and  supreme.  What  man  in 
whom  the  ceaseless  call  of  the  siren  voices  within, 
voices  that  no  priestly  code,  no  laws,  and  no  argu- 
ments can  still,  voices  whose  sweetness  and  strength 
rise  from  the  unfathomable  abysses  where  flesh  and 
spirit  are  indistinguishable — what  man  who  has  from 
childhood  listened  to  those  voices  within  but  must  feel 
the  triumphant  echo  when  he  finds  a  woman  tempted 
and  inspired  as  he  has  been  tempted  and  inspired? 
Madame  de  Pompadour  might  be  what  the  Court  said, 
but  there  were  hopes,  visions,  in  her  which  the  Court 
and  King  would  never  fathom,  which  it  might  be  well 
she  herself  could  only  see  and  follow  because  she  must. 
She  was  fate,  this  woman,  the  fate  of  France.  Let 
others  judge  her.  He  could  not.  It  was  enough  to 
listen  to  her  summons  and  to  obey. 


Two  Pages  in  the  Book  of  Life     1 79 

And  so  they  sat  in  silence  lapped  each  in  the  gla- 
mour of  their  dreams.  Sharp  awaking  came  with  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Madame' s  mistress  of  the  robes. 

"  The  King,"  she  cried,  "  the  King  is  coming,"  and 
she  promptly  fled. 

The  Marquise  rose  almost  in  terror.  "  Quick, 
quick,"  she  whispered,  "  you  have  the  key." 

But  Louis  had  already  entered,  sullen  and  bored. 

Andre's  genius  did  not  desert  him.  "Madame," 
he  exclaimed  with  a  matchless  mixture  of  dismay  and 
despair,  ' '  I  am  ruined.  The  King  has  discovered  me." 

Louis  broke  into  a  laugh.  His  royal  and  jaded 
humour  was  tickled  by  the  comic  dejection  in  the 
Vicomte's  face  as  he  shamefacedly  kneeled  to  kiss  the 
King's  hand. 

"Mafoi  !  The  gentleman  should  think  of  the  lady, ' ' 
he  said  smiling,  "  and  not  merely  of  himself." 

"  True,  Sire,  when  the  lady  will  think  presently  of 
the  gentleman.  But  in  this  case  the  lady  will  not 
think  of  him  at  all — alas  !  " 

Andrews  half-droll,  half-passionate  sigh  provoked  a 
second  royal  laugh. 

"I  must  find  employment  for  this  idle  vicomte," 
Louis  remarked  to  Madame,  "  and  not  in  your  house- 
hold, parbleu  /" 

"  I  fear  not,  more 's  the  pity,"  Andre  answered. 

The  King  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  His  ennui 
had  remastered  him,  and  he  stared  at  the  screen  dully. 
"  Your  Majesty  is  tired,"  the  Marquise  murmured, 


i8o  No.  101 

kneeling  to  slip  a  cushion  under  his  head.     "  I  will 
read  to  you  something  amusing." 

' '  Not  for  worlds.  They  do  not  write  amusing  books 
in  Paris  to-day  as  they  once  did."  He  stared  at  the 
carpet,  then  at  her  faultless  dress,  and  Andre  observed 
how  his  hand  listlessly  rested  on  hers  as  she  remained 
kneeling  by  his  side. 

"  It  is  only  the  book  of  life  that  is  amusing,  Sire," 
she  retorted  with  a  gay  nod.     "  Your  Majesty  writes  a 
fresh  page  in  mine  every  day." 

"Is  it  amusing?"  he  asked  with  a  faint  flash  of 
interest. 

' '  Shall  I  tell  you,  Sire,  what  my  woman  said  this 
morning?  'Do  you  laugh,  Madame,'  quoth  she, 
'  when  the  King  talks  because  it  is  a  jest  or  because  he 
is  the  King?'" 

I/ouis  looked  up.     "And  your  answer  ?  " 

"  You  must  guess,  Sire." 

"  Because  he  is  the  King,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"  No,  no.     '  The  King  never  jests  with  me,'  I  re- 
plied, '  and  he  is  never  the  King  to  me;  he  is  only — '  ' 
she  completed  the  sentence  by  a  curtsey  to  her  heels 
and  the  suspicion  of  a  kiss  on  his  fingers. 

"You  are  a  foolish  woman,"  was  the  royal  reply. 
The  impenetrable  eyes  cleared  for  a  moment. 

Andre  was  thrilled  by  the  ripple  of  laughter  that 
floated  through  the  room.  "Ah,  Sire,  now  you  jest 
for  the  first  time— absolutely  the  first  time." 

She  rose.    ' '  Monsieur  le  Vicomte, ' '  she  said  quickly, 


Two  Pages  in  the  Book  of  Life     181 

"you  have  His  Majesty's  permission  to  retire."  Then 
as  he  took  his  leave,  "You  are  a  man,  my  friend,"  she 
whispered  softly,  "  and  you  saved  us  both.  I  shall 
not  forget,"  and  behind  her  Sovereign's  back  she  blew 
him  an  intoxicating  adieu. 

As  the  door  closed  Madame  de  Pompadour  was 
whispering  in  Louis's  ear  and  a  hearty  royal  laugh 
rang  out. 

For  in  such  ways  do  kings  permit  themselves  to  be 
governed. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ANDRIJ  IS  THRICE  SURPRISED 

THE  great  historical  buildings  in  Paris  bear  witness 
with  eloquence  and  beauty  to  the  genius  and  ambition 
of  the  many  royal  rulers  who  during  three  centuries  of 
a  wonderfully  dramatic  history  have  led  a  nation  itself 
gifted  with  genius  and  ambition.  Versailles  alone  is 
the  exception,  for  in  Versailles  even  the  most  ignorant 
and  cold-blooded  of  modern  sightseers  feels  at  every 
step  that  the  years  have  vanished,  that  he  breathes  the 
air  of  the  grand  age,  that  he  is  face  to  face  with  the 
monument  of  one  historic  figure  and  one  alone — lyouis 
XIV.  Gone  is  the  bitter  memory  of  1870  ;  gone  is  the 
tragedy  of  Marie  Antoinette.  Alike  in  the  stately 
splendour  of  the  Galerie  des  Glaces,  in  the  cold  loneli- 
ness of  the  chapel,  in  the  ordered  magnificence  of  these 
haughty  gardens,  most  of  all  in  the  imperial  pomp  of 
the  royal  bedroom,  dominates  the  spirit  of  the  Roi 
Soleil — the  King  who  made  kingship  the  art  and  the 
science  and  the  creed  of  a  nation's  life. 

As  one  steps  to-day  into  the  empty  stillness  of  that 
memorable  CEil  de  Bceuf  the  light  from  the  oval  win- 

182 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised         183 

dows  seems  to  fall  only  on  those  white  and  gold  doors 
beyond  which  lies  the  state  bed-chamber.  But  wait 
in  patience  and  the  loneliness  will  vanish;  the  room  is 
now  crowded  with  the  courtiers  awaiting  the  grand 
lever  of  majesty  ;  a  hundred  tongues  are  discussing 
eagerly  the  events  of  the  hour,  a  hundred  eyes  watch 
with  feverish  eagerness  all  who  have  the  right  to  pass 
and  repass  those  jealously-guarded  portals,  behind 
which  monarchy,  on  whose  caprice  turns  the  fate  of 
ministers  and  nobles,  is  dressing. 

"  The  King,"  said  Mont  Rouge  to  St.  Ben&it,  "is  as 
playful  this  morning  as  he  was  last  night.  Ah,  you 
have  not  heard?  "  he  added.  "  Well,  when  the  Duke 
de  Richelieu  was  pulling  off  His  Majesty's  boots, '  How 
many  times,  by  the  bye,  Duke,  have  you  been  in  the 
Bastille  ? '  asked  the  King.  '  Three  times,  Sire,' 
Richelieu  replied  stiffly.  '  Odd  numbers  are  unlucky,' 
said  the  King  in  his  slow  way,  and  even  Richelieu 
was  annoyed." 

"A  pretty  plain  hint,"  St.  Ben6it  remarked. 
' '  What  has  Richelieu  been  doing  ?  Another  love  affair 
and  a  duel  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  was  only  saucy  to  the  Pompadour  at 
supper.  That  woman  is  itching  to  show  that  dukes 
can  be  treated  like  kitchen  wenches." 

"Perhaps.  But  she  does  n't  get  her  way  with  every- 
one. De  N6rac  has  positively  refused  to  enter  her 
service,  and  the  King  is  more  pleased  with  him  than 
ever." 


184  No.  101 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that  he  has  been  given  the  Cor- 
don Bleu?"  Mont  Rouge  demanded  with  a  flash  of 
jealousy. 

"  Quite  true,  the  lucky  dog,"  answered  the  Duke  of 
Pontchartrain,  who  had  joined  them,  "  and  the  ex- 
traordinary thing  is  that  the  Pompadour,  who  was  very 
angry  with  De  Nerac,  jested  about  it  last  night." 

"  But  what  has  De  Nerac  done  to  get  the  Cordon 
Bleu  ? ' '  Mont  Rouge  growled. 

The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Have  you  for- 
gotten the  night  before  Fontenoy,  my  friend?"  His 
voice  dropped.  "  This  mysterious  affair  of  yesterday 
in  the  woods,  too,"  he  whispered,  "  is  all  part  of  the 
same  infernal  business." 

"You  don't  mean  it?" 

' '  I  do.  The  King  and  the  ministers  are  convinced 
that  the  Vincennes  business,  this  affair  of  the  woods, 
and  that  Fontenoy  treachery  all  come  from  the  same 
hand — a  hand  near  at  home." 

Mont  Rouge  and  St.  Ben6it  drew  the  Duke  into  a 
corner. 

"The  traitor  then  is  here?  In  Versailles?"  St. 
Ben&it  asked. 

"  It  is  the  only  explanation." 

Mont  Rouge  passed  a  perplexed  hand  over  his  chin. 
"Good  I/>rd!"  he  ejaculated.  "Think  you  that 
woman  has — " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  Duke  with  sharp  conviction. 
"  The  Pompadour  is  as  anxious  to  discover  the  traitor 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised          185 

as  the  King  or  d'Argenson  himself.  You  may  take 
your  oath  of  that.  Heavens  !  man,  if  she  can  lay  bare 
this  inscrutable  mystery  she  will  earn  the  King's  grati- 
tude for  the  rest  of  her  naughty  life." 

"And  what  has  De  Nerac  to  do  with ?  " 

"  What  De  Nerac  discovered  last  night,"  St.  Ben6it 
interrupted,  "  is  known  only  to  the  King  and  himself. 
You  will  get  nothing  from  him ;  he  is  pledged  to 
secrecy.  But ' ' — he  paused  to  beckon  to  the  Abb6  de 
St.  Victor  to  join  them — "but  it  makes  it  more  neces- 
sary than  ever  for  us  to  have  De  N6rac  on  our  side." 

"  I  do  not  see  that,"  Mont  Rouge  objected. 

St.  Ben&it's  foot  tapped  impatiently.  "  If  our 
scheme,"  he  urged,  "  to  persuade  the  King  to  expel 
the  Pompadour  is  to  succeed,  De  N6rac  must  be  our 
ally.  It  is  as  clear  as  daylight." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  Duke,  "  of  course.  Drive  De 
Nerac  into  the  Pompadour's  arms  and  together  they 
will  discover  the  traitor,  and  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge 
will  presently  be  compelled  to  prefer  the  village 
wenches  on  his  estates  in  Poitou  to  the  ladies  of 
Versailles." 

"Yes,"  the  Abbe"  assented.  "We  must  have  De 
Nerac,  for  he  knows  more  than  any  of  us,  and  he  has 
courage.  Courage  is  a  rare  thing  in  Versailles." 

"  I  agree,"  Mont  Rouge  said  slowly.  "  But  if  he 
won't  join  us  in  getting  rid  of  that  detestable  woman 
then  he  must  share  her  fate." 

"There  is  Andre","   St.   Ben6it  gladly   remarked. 


i86  No.  101 

"  l,et  us  congratulate  him  on  his  refusal  to  stain  his 
honour  by  obedience  to  a  wanton  of  the  bourgeoisie." 

But  they  were  anticipated  by  the  Chevalier.  ' '  My 
felicitations,  Vicomte,"  the  young  man  was  saying, 
"  for  you  are  the  first  to  teach  our  new  and  high-born 
marquise  her  place." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  Andre"  replied  sweetly,  to  the 
disgust  and  astonishment  of  his  friends. 

"Mon  Dieu  /  "  Mont  Rouge  growled  as  the  Chevalier 
smilingly  left  them  to  pass  into  the  King's  bedroom, 
for  as  a  royal  favourite  he  had  that  privileged  entr£e> 
"I  would  sooner  pull  that  coxcomb's  ears  than  accept 
his  congratulations  even  if  I  were  a  Cordon  Bleu." 

"My  dear  Mont  Rouge,"  Andre  answered,  "the 
King  will  not  permit  us  now  to  pull  a  coxcomb's  ears, 
but  some  day  I  hope  to  have  that  pleasure." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  some  day?  "  Mont  Rouge  sneered. 

"To  be  sure.  When  you  have  turned  out  our 
mistress,  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  you 
shall  help  me  to  pull  the  ears  of  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant." 

Andre*  in  fact  was  in  a  rare  humour.  His  plans 
were  now  arranged  to  a  nicety.  With  the  Pompadour's 
help  "  No.  101"  was  to  be  discovered  and  Denise  won. 
The  mystery  of  last  night  had  suggested  half-a-dozen 
clues.  His  star  was  once  more  in  the  ascendant.  The 
great  game  to  be  played  required  courage,  resource, 
and  Machiavellian  cunning.  This  was  the  beginning. 
The  rest  would  follow.  Ah  !  the  white  and  gold  doors 


Andr6  is  Thrice  Surprised          187 

were  thrown  open ;  hats  came  off ;  the  King  had  en- 
tered, and  all  eagerly  surveyed  his  bored,  inscrutable 
countenance. 

"  Is  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  here?  "  Louis  demanded 
presently,  and  Andre"  stepped  forward  to  kiss  his  hand. 
"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  he  proceeded  in  his  slow, 
soft,  yet  clear  voice,  "you  will  bear  my  humble  saluta- 
tions to  her  Majesty  the  Queen  and  say  that  I  offer  her 
Majesty,  for  the  vacant  place  of  the  captain  of  her 
guard,  the  services  of  the  bravest  officer  in  the  Chevau- 
legers  of  my  Guards — yourself." 

A  loud  hum,  partly  of  warm  approval,  partly  of  ex- 
cited and  jealous  comment,  drowned  Andrews  thanks. 

"By  G-Gad,"  stammered Des  Forges,  "another s-slap 
for  the  fishy  g-grisette — eh? " 

"  She  's  going,  yes,  she  's  going;  God  be  praised  !  " 
muttered  the  Abbe  St.  Victor. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  St.  Ben&it  cried,  "more 
than  ever  we  must  keep  De  Ne"rac  on  our  side,"  and 
Mont  Rouge  sulkily  assented. 

The  Duke  de  Pontchartrain  thoughtfully  stroked  his 
lace  ruffles.  "  I  am  puzzled,"  he  remarked  aside  to  St. 
Ben6it  ;  "  I  wonder  if  it  really  means  that  the  King 
has  thrown  over  the  grisette,  or  whether—"  he  paused. 

"  Well?"  St.  Ben6it  demanded  impatiently. 

"  De  Nerac  is  deep,  devilish  deep,"  the  Duke  mused, 
' '  and  so  is  the  King.  If  De  N£rac  is  not  on  our  side  it 
will  play  old  Harry  with  our  plot  to  have  him  ruling 
the  roost  in  her  Majesty's  apartments." 


1 88  No.  101 

But  his  friends  laughed  his  suspicions  away.  De 
Nerac  had  insulted  the  Pompadour  and  he  had  been 
rewarded  with  the  captaincy  of  the  Queen's  Guards. 
What  could  be  better  ? 

Meanwhile  Andre",  having  executed  his  commission 
and  been  flattered  by  the  joyful  reception  of  the  news 
by  the  Queen's  ladies,  was  somewhat  grimly  reflecting 
in  the  Hall  of  the  Queen's  Guards  on  this  new  turn  of 
fortune's  wheel.  Truly  the  Pompadour  was  a  won- 
derful woman.  She  had  promised  to  arrange  and  she 
had  kept  her  word.  To  be  placed  in  an  office  which 
must  daily  bring  him  into  touch  with  Denise  was  better 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed.  A  genius  the  Pompadour 
as  he  had  said,  and  this  was  the  woman  whom  the 
priests  and  ministers  and  courtiers  hoped  to  expel. 
Poor  blind  fools !  They  little  knew  the  whole  truth. 
Yes,  his  star  was  in  the  ascendant.  The  Machiavellian 
game  must  be  played  out  ;  it  promised  victory  and 
Denise. 

The  rustle  of  a  dress  roused  him.  It  was  Denise, 
and  surely  that  was  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Aniant  parting 
from  her. 

"You  have  heard  the  King's  will,  Mademoiselle," 
Andre"  said  quietly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  Very  lovely  she  looked 
at  that  moment,  though  her  manner  was  strangely 
cold. 

"  You  do  not  congratulate  me  ?  " 

"No." 


a. 
I 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised          189 

Andre"  glanced  at  her  with  sharp  surprise. 

"After  your  kind  words  on  my  return,"  he  began, 
"  I  had  hoped,  Mademoiselle,  more  for  your  congratu- 
lations than  for  those  of  any  other  in  Versailles." 

Denise  made  no  reply;  she  quietly  moved  away. 

' '  Denise, ' '  he  broke  out  passionately.  ' '  Denise ' ' 

"Mademoiselle  la  Marquise,  if  you  please,  Monsieur 
le  Vicomte,"  she  interrupted  with  her  head  high  in 
air,  and  Andre  could  only  gaze  at  her  in  mute 
astonishment. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise 
for  the  future.  And  if  you  would  know  the  reason  ask 
your  conscience,  the  conscience  of  one  who  was  once 
a  noble  and  soldier  of  France."  Andre"  would  have 
spoken,  but  she  made  a  peremptory  sign  with  her 
hand.  "It  is  the  second  time,"  she  resumed,  "I  have 
been  bitterly  disappointed.  Our  world  believes  that 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  refuse  the  temptation  of 
that  woman,  that  the  King's  reward  was  due  to  your 
courage  and  your  loyalty.  Unhappily  I  know  better. 
You  are  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guards  because  it  is 
the  wish  of  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour." 

"  Mademoiselle  ! " 

"  You  deny  it  ?  "  She  paused.  "  That,  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte,  unfortunately  does  not  make  it  less  true.  But 
do  not  be  alarmed.  I  shall  not  betray  your  secret. 
And  if  you  will,  let  my  silence  be  due  to  the  friendship 
of  the  past,  a  friendship  that  you  yourself  by  your  own 
act  have  severed." 


190  No.  101 

She  turned  her  back  on  him.  But  Andr6  had  swiftly 
opened  the  door  for  her. 

"  It  would  be  impertinent  for  me  to  ask  for  a  hear- 
ing," he  said  slowly.  "That  you  will  not  betray  my 
secret  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  it  is  very  kind.  In 
return,  Mademoiselle,  I  promise  that  I  will  not  betray 
yours." 

Their  eyes  met.     Andre  faced  her  unflinchingly. 

"  My  secret?"  Denise  demanded,  but  she  could  not 
quite  control  her  voice. 

"  Your  secret,  Marquise."     He  bowed  low. 

He  had  the  bitter  satisfaction,  if  satisfaction  it  was, 
to  see  a  faint  thrill  of  fear — or  was  it  trouble  ? — pass 
into  her  eyes.  And  now  that  he  was  alone  he  strode 
about  the  room  letting  his  anger  master  him,  once 
more  a  prey  to  all  the  black  doubts  and  fears.  There 
was  only  one  explanation  —  that  the  Chevalier  had 
wormed  out  the  truth,  and  for  his  own  purposes  had 
hastened  to  share  his  knowledge  with  Denise.  The 
Court  was  hoodwinked,  but  they  were  not.  Cruelest 
of  all,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  the  disdain  in  the  face 
and  figure  of  the  woman  he  loved  had  cut  more  sharply 
than  her  words.  He  clenched  his  fist.  He  could  not 
go  back  now — no,  he  had  chosen  his  path;  but  the 
day  would  come,  he  swore,  when  he  should  prove  that 
it  was  his  love  and  the  ambition  that  it  inspired  which 
had  driven  him  to  defy  the  Court,  his  class,  and 
herself. 

There  was  work  to  be  done  which  could  not  wait. 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised          191 

He  galloped  away  into  the  woods.  "  Yvonne,"  he 
called  out,  dismounting  at  the  stables  of  "  The  Cock 
with  the  Spurs  of  Gold." 

"  Monseigneur,"  she  exclaimed,  flinging  back  her 
matted  yellow  hair  and  springing  up.  He  had  sur- 
prised her  with  skirt  pinned  up  to  the  knees  milking 
her  sleek  cow.  She  was  indeed  Yvonne  of  the  Spotted 
Cow,  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless  Ankles.  Bah!  it  was  a 
pity  her  face  was  so  smudged,  her  bodice  so  ragged 
and  dirty,  for  her  figure  was  excellently  straight  and 
supple.  "  Monseigneur!  "  she  humbly  kissed  his  hand. 

Andre  felt  strange  qualms  as  he  surveyed  her  in 
silence.  Something  inexplicable  in  this  peasant 
wench  seemed  to  make  the  task  he  had  undertaken 
disagreeable,  almost  revolting,  yet  she  was  only  a  farm 
slut  and  he  was  a  noble.  And  the  secret  perhaps  of 
"  No.  101  "  was  the  prize. 

"  I  want  your  help,  Yvonne,"  he  said  abruptly. 

' '  My  help  ?  ' '  she  repeated  as  if  she  did  not  under- 
stand, but  there  was  a  momentary  gleam  in  her  eyes. 
"  My  help?  He  is  not  happy,  Monseigneur?  Ah," 
she  gave  a-  little  cry,  "the  lady  that  he  loves,  the 
Marquise,  is  faithless." 

"No,"  he  interrupted  fiercely.    "No,  no!   It  is— 

She  put  her  finger  on  her  lip.  "  Some  one  is  com- 
ing," she  whispered.  "  Monseigneur  has  enemies, 
many  enemies.  He  must  not  be  seen  here.  Come, 
quick,  quick  !  " 

She  half  pushed  him  into  the  stables,  closed  and 


192  No.  101 

locked  the  door  and  left  him.  Andre1  from  within  could 
hear  steps  coming  to  and  fro  on  the  stones,  could  hear 
voices.  They  ceased.  The  door  opened. 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"Monsieur  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,"  she  replied 
quietly. 

"  Name  of  a  dog  !  "  he  ejaculated.  He  drew  the  girl 
into  the  stables,  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  Such 
firm,  well-shaped  shoulders  under  her  dirty,  ill-laced 
bodice.  "  Now  tell  me,"  he  said  peremptorily,  "  what 
you  know  of  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant." 

Yvonne  faced  him  with  a  humble  simplicity.  In- 
voluntarily Andre  dropped  his  hands,  mastered  by  that 
indefinable  feeling.  "  Monsieur  the  Chevalier  comes 
here  from  time  to  time,"  she  answered;  "  he  inquires 
for  the  wise  woman  who  lived  here,  but  he  also  would 
know  if  Monseigneur  visits  the  inn  and  why  ? ' ' 

"Ah  !     And  your  answer  ? ' ' 

"  That  I  know  nothing." 

Andre  scrutinised  her  remorselessly.  Either  she 
told  the  truth  or  she  was  a  consummate  actress. 

"  Did  I  do  right,  Monseigneur,"  she  asked  in  her 
simple  way,  "  to  say  what  was  not  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  quickly,  but  not  without  a  stab 
of  shame.  "And  my  enemies,  Yvonne,  what  of  my 
enemies?" 

"  They  are  great  gentlemen  of  the  Court.  They  and 
their  servants  come  here,  too,  they  watch  Monseigneur. 
They  seek  a  traitor,  so  they  say." 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised          193 

Andre  reflected.  It  was  what  he  feared.  "I  also 
seek  a  traitor,  Yvonne,"  he  began  quietly,  "  and  I  am 
in  great  trouble.  I  need  your  help." 

"  Monseigneur  is  pleased  to  jest.  My  help — the  help 
of  a  peasant  girl  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  your  help,  Yvonne.  The  King,  my  master, 
is  betrayed.  The  traitor  is  unknown,  but  at  this  inn 
perhaps  one  may  learn  what  will  reveal  the  truth. 
You  are  here,  you  have  eyes  and  ears.  Will  you 
promise  to  tell  me  all  that  you  can  learn? " 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him,  but  her  smudged  face 
disclosed  nothing  save  a  natural  fear. 

"  Some  might  promise  you,"  he  pursued,  "  money, 
wealth,  love.  Money  I  have  not  got ;  love  is  not  mine 
to  give " 

"  It  is  an  honour  for  a  peasant  girl,"  she  interrupted 
softly,  "to  be  loved  by  a  noble  who  can  give  her  jewels 
and  fine  clothes  and  pleasure.  And  then  when  his 
love  is  cold,  as  needs  must  be,  he  can  make  her  happy 
with  a  good  dowry." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  so.  But,"  he  took  her  hand,  "  I 
will  not " 

"  I  am  not  pretty,  alas  !  "  she  interrupted  again,  but 
the  coquetry  in  her  figure  was  strangely  provocative. 

"  Peace,  child,  peace  !  and  listen.  I  cannot  and  will 
not  treat  you  as  others  might.  Love  is  not  mine  to 
give.  But  I  ask  your  help,  although  I  promise  you 
nothing  in  return  save  the  grateful  thanks  of  a  soldier 

of  France." 
13 


194  No.  101 

"  I  would  be  your  servant,"  she  whispered,  "  your 
servant,  Monseigneur." 

Andre"  felt  her  hand  tremble.  For  the  moment  swift 
passion  tempted  him,  and  Yvonne  was  watching  him 
closely  though  he  did  not  know  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  brusquely,  "you  shall  be  my  ser- 
vant, but  nothing  more."  She  was  silent,  and  he 
feared  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake.  "Your  help,  that 
is  all  I  ask,  and  I  ask  it  because  I  trust  you." 

"I  will  help,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  will 
help." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  as  if  it  were  the  hand 
of  a  gentlewoman.  Why  he  did  so  strange  a  thing  he 
could  not  have  explained. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried.  "  I  am  not  worthy.  Ah  ! 
Monseigneur  is  not  as  other  nobles.  He  has  pity  and 
respect  even  for  a  peasant  wench.  He  shall  not  dis- 
honour himself,  and  I — I  will  help  because  I  am  grate- 
ful, yes,  grateful."  For  a  moment  she  hid  her  face 
overcome. 

"  Adieu,  Yvonne,"  he  murmured,  almost  tenderly. 
"Adieu,  and  remember!"  He  mounted  and  rode 
away.  As  he  turned  into  the  woods  a  man  rapidly 
crossed  the  bridle  track  and  disappeared,  but  not  before 
he  had  caught  a  sight  of  his  face.  Somewhere  in  the 
past  he  had  seen  that  face — when  ?  Where  ?  He  knew 
he  was  not  mistaken,  though  in  vain  he  racked  his 
brains.  And  with  this  fresh  torturing  thought  he  rode 
into  Paris. 


Andre  is  Thrice  Surprised          195 

Yvonne  had  stood  like  one  in  a  dream  long  after  he 
had  disappeared.  Now  she  surveyed  with  ill-concealed 
disgust  her  pinned-up  skirt  and  clumsy  sabots,  now 
impatiently  brushed  a  tear  from  under  the  matted  hair 
over  her  eyes.  "Dieu  le  Vengeur!"  She  suddenly 
threw  up  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  pain,  "Dieule 
Vengeur  !  ' '  Then  furtively  glancing  round  she  walked 
slowly  towards  the  house.  On  the  threshold  some  one 
met  her  and  for  a  half-hour  she  might  have  been  heard 
conversing  earnestly,  almost  pleading.  The  voices 
ceased.  A  moment  later  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant 
stepped  out  from  the  inn,  jauntily  flung  his  gay  cloak 
about  him,  and  galloped  swiftly  in  the  direction  of 
Versailles. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  NEPTUNE 

THE  autumn  evening  had  already  closed  in  on  the 
noble  gardens  of  Versailles.  Alleys,  parterres,  and 
walks  alike  were  deserted  save  by  the  Fountain  of 
Neptune,  where  on  a  seat  under  the  sombre  shadows 
of  the  stately  trees  a  woman,  cloaked  to  her  feet  and 
hooded,  sat  patiently  watching  the  ghostly  glimmer  of 
the  statues  in  the  dusk.  She  had  not  to  wait  long 
before  a  man  cloaked  also  had  quietly  joined  her. 

"  I  am  late,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  not 
my  fault." 

"It  does  not  matter,  Chevalier,"  Denise  replied 
calmly,  "  the  later  the  better  for  both  of  us." 

"  No  doubt.  Ah,  it  is  noble  of  you  to  come  here 
alone,  you  who  have  so  much  to  lose  if " 

"  We  will  not  talk  of  that,  please."  "  I  am  here  of 
my  own  free  will  and  I  would  risk  much  more  for  the 
sake  of  the  Queen,  my  mistress,  and  for  France." 

"  Yet  I  would  it  were  not  necessary." 

"  Unhappily  it  is.  That  woman's  spies  have  made 
it  impossible  that  you  can  any  longer  come  to  confer 

196 


The  Fountain  of  Neptune          197 

with  the  Queen's  friends  by  the  secret  passage  ;  if  we 
are  to  succeed  in  our  plan  it  must  not  be  known  that 
you,  who  are  in  the  King's  private  service,  are  an  ally 
of  the  Ministers  and  of  the  Queen's  party;  nor  can  you 
now  openly  visit  her  Majesty's  apartments  as  you 
did " 

"No,"  said  the  Chevalier,  "  the  new  Captain  of  the 
Queen's  Guards  has  prevented  that." 

For  a  minute  or  two  Denise  was  silent.  ' '  Secrecy  is 
necessary  to  success,"  she  resumed  in  a  restrained 
voice ;  "I  am  here  as  you  know  on  behalf  of  the 
Queen's  advisers;  what  others  may  think  cannot  affect 
those  who  are  my  friends,  who  believe  in  me  because 
they  believe  in  my — our — cause." 

' '  Not  merely  your  friends,  Marquise,  but  those  who 
love  you." 

"  Monsieur,  up  there,"  she  pointed  to  the  majestic 
front  of  the  palace,  where  the  lights  were  beginning  to 
twinkle,  "you  can  speak  like  that  if  you  think  fit. 
Down  here  I  beg  you  to  remember  I  am  an  orphan,  a 
girl  alone. ' ' 

And  then  both  were  silent. 

"Are  you  sure,  really  quite  sure,"  Denise  began, 
"  that  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  owes  his  appointment  to 
the  intrigues  of  that  woman  ?  " 

"  I  am  absolutely  sure." 

Denise  sighed  very  faintly.  "  You  will  remember 
your  promise  not  to  reveal  this  discovery  to  any  one 
else." 


198  No.  101 

"  Certainly.     But  is  it  necessary  ?  " 

"  No,  not  necessary.     I  ask  it  as  a  favour." 

The  Chevalier  bowed.  Again  there  was  silence,  for 
her  tone  did  not  invite  further  question.  "  Have  you 
discovered  anything  fresh  of  importance?"  Denise 
asked  presently. 

"Several  things,  Mademoiselle." 

"Do  they  concern  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac?"  she 
demanded  quickly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  them.  I  cannot,  I  will 
not,"  she  added  in  a  low  voice  of  emotion. 

The  Chevalier  made  a  gesture  of  despairing  dismay. 
"  But  speak  I  must,"  he  said,  "for  things  cannot  be 
worse  than  they  are.  The  King  is  absolutely  infatu- 
ated. The  Pompadour  is  wise  enough  to  see  that  that 
may  not  last ;  she  will  not  rest  therefore  till  she  has 
his  Majesty  completely  in  her  power.  This  mysterious 
treachery  is  her  chance.  L,et  her  discover  the  truth 
and  the  traitor  and  no  one  will  prevail  against  her." 
He  paused  to  add,  "And  the  man  who  will  discover  it 
for  her  is  her  friend  and  servant  in  secret,  the  Vicomte 
de  Nerac." 

"  You  believe  that?  "  she  faced  him  eagerly. 

"  Mademoiselle,  if  there  is  any  man  in  Versailles 
who  can  do  it  the  Vicomte  is  that  man." 

Denise  clasped  her  hands.  "  What  can  we  do, 
Chevalier  ?  "  she  asked.  ' '  What  can  we  do  ?  " 

The  Chevalier  took  a  step  or  two  up  and  down. 


The  Fountain  of  Neptune          199 

"  There  are  only  two  courses,"  he  said  very  gravely. 
"  Either  the  Vicomte  must  be  compelled  to  break  with 
the  Pompadour — or — "  he  paused — "the  King  must  be 
persuaded  to  dismiss  him  from  Versailles — in  plain 
words  ruin  him." 

Denise  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Ah,  God  !  "  she  mur- 
mured, "that  woman,  how  I  hate  her!  She  steals 
the  honourable  soldiers  of  France  and  corrupts  them  ; 
she  corrupts  the  King,  she  wrongs  a  Queen  who  has 
wronged  no  one.  Yes,  I  hate  her  because  I  am  a 
woman,  to  whom  because  I  believe  in  God  and  my 
noblesse  these  things  are  hateful." 

"You  are  right,  Mademoiselle,"  sincerity  rang  in 
the  boyish  voice,  "  to  me,  too,  she  is  the  symbol  in  a 
woman's  form  of  all  that  is  evil  in  France,  and  it  is 
your  France  that  will  suffer  for  her  ambition  and  her 
sins." 

"She  will  be  punished,"  said  Denise,  "God  will 
punish  her.  Dieu  le  Vengeur  !  ' '  she  murmured. 

The  Chevalier  had  drawn  a  deep  breath.  "Dieu  le 
Vengeur  /  "  he  repeated  to  himself  almost  mockingly. 
"  It  is  a  fine  motto,  Dieu  le  Vengeur!" 

"It  is  strange,"  she  mused,  "  that  you,  Chevalier, 
who  were  not  born  a  French  noble,  should  feel  as  we 
do." 

"You  have  taught  me,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"  Yes,  yes,  when  I  entered  the  King's  service  I  found 
a  strange  court  and  a  strange  master.  It  was  you  who 
taught  me,  what  I  could  scarcely  believe,  that  there  are 


200  NO.  101 

still  in  France  women  worthy  to  be  called  noble,  aye, 
and  men,  too.  It  is  for  your  sake  that  I  work,  that  I 
would  help  to  overthrow  and  punish  that  low-born 
adventuress  who  would  ruin  the  King.  No,  Mar- 
quise," he  added,  "  I  do  not  forget  your  warning,  and 
I  say  no  more  than  this,  that  your  love  alone  keeps  me 
true  to  my  task,  to  your — our — cause." 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  answered  with  simple  dignity. 
"  I/et  us  work  for  France,  Chevalier,  and  for  the  right, 
and  we  shall  win." 

He  bid  her  adieu  and  vanished,  for  safety  required 
that  he  should  leave  her  first.  Denise  sank  back  into 
her  seat  lost  in  the  bitter  thought  that  Andre,  the 
friend  of  her  girlhood,  the  lover  of  whom  for  all  her  in- 
dignation she  was  proud,  must  either  ruin  her  cause 
or  be  ruined  by  herself  and  her  friends.  A  step  on 
the  gravel  startled  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Chevalier?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

The  man  peered  into  her  face  apparently  as  startled 
as  she  was.  "  It  is  not  the  Chevalier  unfortunately," 
Andre"  said  with  icy  slowness,  ' '  but  I  am  obliged  for 
the  information,  Marquise." 

"Ah!"  It  was  an  exquisitely  cruel  moment. 
Flight  on  her  part  was  impossible.  "Ah,  you  came  to 
spy,"  she  burst  out,  beside  herself. 

1 '  Why  deny  it  ?  "  was  the  cool  answer.  ' '  You  would 
not  believe  me.  So  it  was  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant 
who  avoided  me  so  successfully  in  the  dark  just  now. 
Happy  Chevalier." 


The  Fountain  of  Neptune          201 

"  I  will,  I  can  explain,"  she  began  incoherently. 

"  Pardon,"  he  interrupted.  "  The  conduct  of  Made- 
moiselle la  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  is  no  affair  of 
mine.  I  regret,  however,  that  as  I  have  intruded  on 
you  I  cannot  offer  you  my  escort,  for  it  is  neither  in  my 
interest  nor  in  yours,  Mademoiselle,  that  you  and  I 
should  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  here  by  the  Chevalier 
de  St.  Amant  or  by  any  one  else  who  talks  of  secrets 
to  all  his  friends.  With  your  permission,  therefore,  I 
will  leave  you." 

Denise  dropped  into  her  seat  with  a  sob.  That 
Andre  of  all  men  should  discover  her  here  was  anguish. 
Nor  was  it  only  that  his  discovery  might  mean  the 
frustration  of  the  schemes  that  were  being  so  carefully 
planned  ;  it  was  the  cruel  humiliation  of  herself  against 
which  all  the  womanhood  in  her  cried  out.  If  he  had 
reproached  her,  accused  her,  denounced  her,  insulted 
her!  No;  he  had  only  been  cold  as  one  who  was  in- 
different or  was  ready  to  believe  any  evil. 

Yet  Andre  was  as  unhappy  as  she,  could  she  have 
but  known  it.  Purely  by  accident  on  his  return  from 
Paris  had  he  stumbled  on  Denise  in  the  dark,  and  tor- 
turing thoughts  made  him  feel  bitter  and  then  reckless. 
Denise,  his  Denise  !  Surely  there  was  nothing  to  live 
for  now.  Love  was  a  mockery  and  a  sham.  Women 
were  all  alike,  faithless,  vain,  frivolous,  worthless. 
He  would  do  the  Pompadour's  work  without  a  twinge 
of  conscience  now,  he  would  take  what  life  had  to  offer 
of  pleasure  and  revenge.  Yes;  he  would  revenge 


202  NO.  101 

himself  to  the  full  on  this  perjured,  intriguing,  and 
immoral  Court,  and  then  he  would  go  to  die  in  the 
L,ow  Countries. 

Meanwhile  Denise  had  returned  safely  to  the  Queen's 
apartments  and  after  supper  sat  alone  in  her  misery  in 
the  room  which  opened  off  the  hall  of  the  Queen's 
Guards.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  but  the  door  was 
ajar  and  she  could  hear  a  group  of  young  nobles  chat- 
tering as  they  played  cards.  Scattered  remarks  broke 
in  on  her  bitter  self-reproaches.  Women's  names, 
some  of  them  her  friends,  some  of  them  dancers  at  the 
opera,  were  being  freely  bandied  about.  It  was  in- 
tolerable, vile,  and  her  cheek  burned  to  think  that  it 
was  with  these  men  that  the  priests  and  the  ministers 
and  herself  were  working  to  overthrow  the  Pompadour. 
She  rose  to  close  the  door  and  shut  out  the  scandalous 
babble,  when  a  remark  stammered  out  by  the  Comte 
des  Forges  sent  a  shiver  through  her. 

"I  t-tell  you  it  is  quite  t-true,"  he  was  saying. 
' '  Mont  Rouge  has  1-learned  that  she  m-met  the  Chev- 
alier by  the  F-fountain  of  Neptune  this  very  evening." 

"  Quite  true,"  Mont  Rouge  assented  in  his  most 
cynical  tone.  "  But  don't  spill  the  wine  on  the  dice, 
dear  friend." 

"  But  how  did  you  learn  ?  ' '  several  voices  demanded. 

"As  one  always  does,  from  another  woman,  of 
course."  Mont  Rouge  was  carelessly  rattling  the 
dice-box. 

"And  you  believe  it?  " 


The  Fountain  of  Neptune          203 

"  Certainly.  Your  turn  to  throw,  Des  Forges.  Gad  ! 
your  hand  is  shaky  to-night.  Why  should  I  not  be- 
lieve it  ?  The  Marquise,  I  suppose,  is  like  the  rest  of 
her  sex,  and,"  he  laughed  softly,  "  the  Chevalier  is— 
the  Chevalier." 

Des  Forges  sniggered  fatuously.  "  Sixes— s-sixes. 
Name  of  St.  Denys !  You  speak  like  a  m-married 
m-man,  Mont  Ro-ouge." 

' '  What  is  Mont  Rouge's  last  scandal  ? ' '  Andre"  had 
entered. 

Half  a  dozen  tongues  eager  with  malice  repeated  the 
story.  There  was  a  pause.  Denise  stood  thrilled.  Her 
fate  was  in  his  hands. 

"  This  is  not  scandal,"  Andre"  said  slowly  and  very 
clearly.  "  It  is  a  lie." 

Chairs  were  excitedly  pushed  back.  Dice-boxes  and 
a  table  rolled  over.  Then  dead  silence. 

"Yes,"  said  the  clear  voice.  "I  repeat  it  is  a 
lie." 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,"  Mont  Rouge  was  speaking 
with  an  affectation  of  marked  politeness  but  his  voice 
shook  with  passion,  "  I  beg  you  to  remember  who  is 
responsible  for  the  story.  You  will  withdraw  that 
insult." 

"At  half-past  six,"  Andre"  proceeded  calmly,  "I  was 
at  the  Fountain  of  Neptune.  The  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant  was  not  there.  The  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour 
was  not  there.  The  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  will  there- 
fore no  doubt  see  fit  to  withdraw  his  insult." 


2O4  No.  101 

' '  Where  is  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant  ? ' '  Have  the 
Chevalier  fetched,"  suggested  two  or  three. 

"  No,"  said  Andre  firmly.  "  This  is  not  the  Chev- 
alier's affair.  The  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  can  deal 
with  him  when  and  how  he  pleases.  For  my  part  I 
repeat  that  the  statement  about  the  Marquise  de  Beau 
Sejour,  for  which  apparently  Monsieur  le  Comte  is 
responsible,  is  a  lie,  and  I  have  proved  it. ' ' 

' '  The  Vicomte  de  Nerac  talks, ' '  Mont  Rouge  an- 
swered fiercely,  "as  if  his  honour  had  been  questioned." 

"Yes,  sir,  it  has  until  you  have  withdrawn  what  you 
said." 

"And  supposing  I  refuse  to  withdraw  at  your  dicta- 
tion?" 

"  It  would  be  only  what  I  expect.  Gentlemen,  I 
now  assert  in  the  presence  of  you  all  that  the  Comte  de 
Mont  Rouge  is  a  liar,  and  I  shall  continue  to  repeat  it 
until " 

"  No,  sir,"  Mont  Rouge  interrupted.  "You  will  not 
repeat  it.  But  at  half-past  six  to-morrow  morning  you 
will  also  in  the  presence  of  these  gentlemen  doubtless 
permit  me  to  teach  you  that  I  am  not  to  be  insulted 
even  by  a  Cordon  Bleu  ! ' ' 

Andre  bowed.  "The  Comte  de  St.  Ben6it  will 
make  the  necessary  arrangements  ,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  with  the  gentleman  whom  you  will  name." 

The  room  slowly  emptied.  Andre  paced  to  and  fro. 
The  curtain  was  sharply  flung  aside,  and  he  saw  Denise 
pale  and  trembling. 


The  Fountain  of  Neptune         205 

"  You  will  not  fight  ? "  she  pleaded. 

"  I  have  no  choice,  Mademoiselle." 

"Oh,  why  did  you  say  it?"  she  questioned  pas- 
sionately. 

"  It  is  surely  very  simple.  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise 
has  no  father,  husband,  nor  brother  to  maintain  her 
honour.  To  me  as  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guards 
belongs  by  right  the  duty  of  defending  her  Majesty's 
ladies  from  insults  and  lies." 

"  But  it  was  true,"  she  whispered  brokenly. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  What  was  said  and  implied 
was  not  true.  It  was  a  lie,  and  you,  Mademoiselle, 
please  God,  know  it  as  I  hope  to  do." 

The  colour  leaped  into  Denise's  cheeks.  The  thanks 
in  her  eyes  were  intoxicating. 

' '  But  if  you  are  killed  ? ' '  she  murmured. 

"  Why,  then,  I  suppose  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour 
will  have  the  pleasure  of  appointing  my  successor. ' ' 

Denise  shrank  at  the  remorseless  taunt.  Andrews 
face  was  pitiless. 

"  Do  not  be  distressed,"  he  added  as  if  he  were  ad- 
dressing the  wall.  "  I  have  a  long  account  with  the 
Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  and  I  welcome  the  opportunity 
of  settling  it  so  satisfactorily.  Besides  it  is  high  time 
that  these  shameless  tongues  should  be  silenced.  I 
do  assure  you  that  after  to-morrow  the  Marquise  de 
Beau  Sejour  will  have  nothing  to  fear— but  the  truth." 

Denise  turned  appealingly  to  him.  "Andre"  !"  she 
whispered  softly.  "Andre  !  " 


206  No.  101 

For  a  moment  his  hands  clenched.  "  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte,"  he  corrected,  frigidly,  "  who  is  your  ser- 
vant, Marquise." 

He  raised  the  curtain  with  a  stately  reverence.  In 
silence  she  walked  past  him,  her  head  bowed,  and  in 
silence  he  saluted  as  became  the  Captain  of  the  Queen's 
Guard,  to  a  maid  of  honour  and  a  marquise.  The 
gleam  of  the  candles  in  their  gilt  sconces  fell  on  her 
hair  and  neck,  on  the  jewels  on  her  breast.  Then  the 
curtain  slowly  swung  between  them. 

When  the  woman  of  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour 
brought  in  the  morning  cup  of  chocolate  she  found  her 
mistress  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  of  tears;  but  she 
was  able  to  tell  her  that  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  had  for 
the  fiftieth  time  vindicated  his  superb  swordsmanship, 
and  that  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  would  not  use  his 
right  arm  for  many  weeks  to  come.  And  Denise  knew 
that  the  Court  had  heard  the  last  of  that  meeting  by 
the  Fountain  of  Neptune. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DENISE'S  ANSWER 

THE  Queen's  ladies  had  been  entertaining  their 
friends,  and  the  antechamber  was  well  filled  with  a 
company  of  the  most  fashionable  and  powerful  of  the 
noblesse,  particularly  of  those  high-born  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  devoted  whatever  time  they  could  spare 
from  breaking  the  Ten  Commandments  with  a  dulcet 
courtesy  to  the  amusement  of  political  intrigue. 
Strangely  enough  the  Queen's  friends  were  drawn  from 
three  very  different  types — there  were  the  "  devout," 
les  divots,  les  rigoristes,  to  whom  the  free-thinking  of 
the  fashionable  philosophers  coming  to  be  the  mode  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  was  anathema  maranatha^ 
my  lords  of  the  hierarchy  of  the  bishops,  with  the  high- 
born women  who  were  their  obedient  pupils ;  there 
were  the  "  fribbles,"  the  great  seigneurs  with  their 
wives  and  sisters  and  daughters  privileged  morally  as 
well  as  politically  if  only  the  breach  were  made  within 
their  own  class  and  with  due  regard  to  etiquette  and 
good  manners,  the  men  and  women  born  within  the 
purple  who  sincerely  believed  that ' '  God  could  scarcely 

207 


208  No.  101 

condemn  a  person  of  that  quality ' '  for  what  would  be 
mortal  sin  in  a  bourgeois  ;  and  there  were  the  ' '  snobs, ' ' 
the  women  above  all  of  the  inferior  noblesse  remorse- 
lessly struggling  upwards  who  snatched  at  the  splendid 
opportunity  a  queen's  cause  and  a  minister's  cause 
offered.  Monsieur  the  Dauphin,  mesdames  the  prin- 
cesses of  the  blood  were  known  to  hate  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  to  be  plotting  her  overthrow ;  that 
was  enough.  Surely  with  royalty  lay  the  social 
future. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  the  Abbe  St.  Victor  was  explain- 
ing with  the  smile  of  the  lay  rou£  to  the  Duchesse  de 
Pontchartrain,  "the  King's  sin  would  be  only  one-half 
as  heinous  if  Madame  de  Pompadour  were  simply  a 
widow  or  even  a  demoiselle  " ;  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff 
and  regretfully  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Or  if  she  were  really  vulgar,"  the  Duchess  inter- 
posed with  the  pouting  staccato  which  she  knew  be- 
came her  best.  "  I  wonder  if  all  bourgeoise  women 
are  like  her.  She  is  not  vulgar,  alas!  and  really  it  is 
her  duty  to  be  vulgar.  Pontchartrain  says  she  dresses 
better  than  I  do." 

"  That  is  mere  outward  show,"  the  Abbe  remarked, 
"  as  well  as  being  not  true." 

"  I  wonder,"  the  Duchess  asked  with  an  air  of  pro- 
fundity, "  if  a  woman  can  be  vulgar  inside  without 
being  vulgar  outside." 

"She  is  not  a  Christian,"  Mademoiselle  Eugenie 
pronounced.  "  That  is  enough  for  me." 


Denise's  Answer  209 

"But  she  goes  regularly  to  mass,"  objected  the 
puzzled  Duchess. 

'To  show  her  fine  dresses  to  the  Duke  de  Pont- 
chartrain," Mademoiselle  retorted  with  sour  severity. 
"Clothes,  Madame,  have  nothing  to  do  with  religion." 

"For  heaven's  sake,"  cried  the  Duchess,  alarmed, 
"  don't  say  so  to  Pontchartrain.  "  It  would  put  the 
most  embarrassing  ideas  into  his  head." 

The  Abbe  tittered  into  his  lace  handkerchief  till  he 
was  checked  by  the  ferocious  glare  of  the  dSvotes  at 
his  elbow.  "  You  will  see  how  vulgar  the  Pompadour 
can  be,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "when  you  have  turned 
her  out." 

"  Inside  out  or  outside  in  ?  "  asked  the  Comtesse  des 
Forges  to  annoy  Mademoiselle  Kuge"nie. 

"Oh,  do  let  it  be  soon,"  the  Duchess  pleaded, 
"  whichever  way  it  is." 

The  Abbe  nodded  mysteriously.  He  was  as  pleased 
as  the  rest  of  the  company  that  afternoon  with  the 
progress  of  the  great  plot. 

"  You  saw  His  Majesty's  confessor?"  The  Duke  de 
Pontchartrain  had  drawn  Denise  into  a  corner.  "Is  it 
satisfactory?  " 

"  Eminently  so.  His  Majesty  listened  with  great 
attention,  and  was  much  impressed,  his  reverence 
thought." 

"  Good."  The  Duke  studied  Denise's  eyes  and 
figure.  What  a  magnificent  corypMe  she  would  have 
made,  to  be  sure,  and  how  the  diamonds  he  had  just 


210  No.  101 

given  to  that  perfidious  minx  Babette  would  have 
suited  her.  "The  ministers,"  he  added  quietly, 
"have  followed  the  confessor's  remonstrances  up,  I 
hear.  They  urged  how  unpopular  the  lady  was  in 
Paris.  His  Majesty  likes  popularity,  you  know,  with 
the  canaille" 

"Yes,"  said  Denise,  "everything  is  going  as  we 
could  wish." 

Her  eyes,  like  the  Duke's,  had  unconsciously  crossed 
the  room,  where  Andre  was  talking  to  the  Comtesse 
des  Forges. 

' '  We  miss  Mont  Rouge, ' '  his  Grace  remarked  care- 
lessly. "  He  was  a  valuable  friend  to  the  cause." 
Ivike  the  rest  of  the  Court  the  Duke  was  ignorant  of 
what  had  brought  about  the  duel,  but  the  sudden 
colour  in  Denise' s  cheeks  and  her  silence  confirmed 
his  shrewd  suspicions.  "And,"  he  added  with  the 
same  carelessness,  ' '  I  am  not  sure  that  De  Nerac  is — 
what  shall  I  say  ? — altogether  a  friend. ' ' 

"Why  do  you  think  that?"  Denise  asked  almost 
proudly. 

The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  My  fancy,  I 
suppose, ' '  he  answered  lightly.  ' '  Perhaps,  however, 
our  dear,  captivating  friend  yonder  will  convert  him. 
She  could  convert  St.  Anthony  if  she  really  tried,  eh  ?  " 

Denise  knew  that  under  this  persiflage  the  Duke  was 
studying  her  closely  and  she  was  greatly  relieved  that 
he  now  bowed  himself  away.  For  all  his  affectation 
of  being  a  man  of  pleasure  and  nothing  more  she  had 


Denise's  Answer  2 1 1 

divined  his  keen  ability  and  wide  knowledge  of  life. 
He  had  talked  to  test  her  and  she  was  angry  that  she 
could  not  meet  his  searching  gaiety  with  the  polished 
impenetrability  that  was  his  unique  gift.  She  bitterly 
resented,  too,  that  Andre*  should  stand  there  basking 
in  the  languishing  eyes  of  the  Comtesse  des  Forges, 
who  was  never  happy  save  when  she  was  making  her 
stammering  nincompoop  of  a  husband  unhappy.  Two 
days  had  passed  since  that  painful  evening  when  he 
had  parted  from  her  in  the  Salle  des  Gardes  de  la 
Reine.  He  had  proved  his  chivalry;  he  had  trium- 
phantly vindicated  her  honour;  why  did  he  not  give 
her  the  opportunity  to  show  that  his  conduct  had  ap- 
pealed both  to  her  pride  and  her  heart  ?  Why  had  he 
not  come  to  ask  and  to  receive  forgiveness  ?  Was  it  as 
gossip  whispered,  that  he  really  preferred  the  Comtesse 
des  Forges  ?  Or  was  it,  as  the  Duke  had  plainly  hinted, 
because  he  really  preferred,  what  was  far  worse,  the 
service  and  rewards  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  ?  And 
reward  him  the  mistress  could,  poor  Denise  was  think- 
ing; for  to  the  surprise  of  the  Court  the  King  had 
simply  ignored  the  duel,  though  in  other  similar  cases 
both  victor  and  vanquished  had  been  forbidden  Ver- 
sailles for  a  season.  And  Andre"  was  still  Captain  of 
the  Queen's  Guards.  Denise's  foot  beat  on  the  floor. 
Yes,  in  the  King's  private  salon  Andre*  had  a  powerful 
protector,  herself  and  her  friends  a  dangerous  enemy, 
yet  her  pride  and  gratitude  alike  forbade  her  to  reveal 
the  truth  to  her  allies— to  the  Queen,  to  the  ministers, 


212  NO.  101 

to  the  d&vots,  to  the  nobles  working  together  for  a 
common  end. 

Andre  saluted  her  as  he  passed  out.  On  the  thresh- 
old he  paused  to  nod  quietly  to  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant,  who  was  entering.  The  young  man  was  as 
gaily  dressed  as  usual,  but  his  boyish  face  was  grave 
and  sad.  He  whispered  something  to  the  Duke  de 
Pontchartrain. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  his  Grace,  "impos- 
sible ! " 

"  I  wish  it  were,"  said  the  Chevalier,  "but  it  is  quite 
true." 

' '  Dismissed !  The  Comptroller-  General  dismissed ! ' ' 
St.  Ben6it  repeated,  and  the  news  flew  round  the  room. 
"But  why?  Why?" 

"It  is  an  intrigue,"  the  Chevalier  explained. 
' '  Messieurs  Paris,  the  bankers,  who  are  related  to  the 
Pompadour,  have  refused  to  do  any  further  business 
with  the  Comptroller-General.  And  so  His  Majesty 
has  dismissed  not  the  bankers  but  the  minister." 

"You  mean,"  remarked  the  Comtesse  des  Forges, 
"  that  the  Pompadour  has  dismissed  the  Comptroller- 
General?" 

"Exactly." 

The  consternation  was  general.  "  It  is  no  laughing 
matter,"  the  Duke  de  Pontchartrain  pronounced. 
"  This  is  the  first  time  that  that  woman  or  any  woman 
in  her  position  has  interfered  with  high  affairs  of  state. 
It  will  not  be  the  last." 


Denise'  s  Answer  2 1 3 

"Ah,  I  knew  she  must  be  vulgar  inside,"  cried  his 
Duchess  triumphantly.  "  It  is  a  pity  she  dresses  so 
well.  The  bankers  pay,  I  suppose." 

"It  is  an  outrage,"  Mademoiselle  Eugenie  said. 
"  The  Court  must  protest." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  answered  the  Duke  with  his  most 
finished  scorn,  "when  a  king  owes  twenty  million 
livres  to  a  pair  of  money-lenders  and  wants  twenty 
million  more  you  will  find  that  it  is  they,  not  the 
Court,  who  can  protest." 

"And  that  is  not  all,"  the  Chevalier  proceeded 
grimly.  "  His  Majesty  has  been  pleased  to  promise 
the  reversion  of  the  Comptroller- General's  place  to  the 
Marquis  de  Vaudi^res." 

"  Impossible  !  Impossible  !  "  The  consternation 
increased,  for  the  Marquis  till  a  few  weeks  before 
had  been  better  known  as  Abel  Poisson,  Madame  de 
Pompadour's  brother. 

"  Charming,"  said  the  Duke,  "  if  His  Majesty  must 
make  marquises  from  the  gutter  at  the  bidding  of  a 
grisette  it  is  only  fair  he  should  enable  them  to  be 
masters  of  the  public  finances  and  to  pay  their  way 
by  plunder.  What  is  His  Majesty's  next  whim, 
Chevalier?" 

"  What  it  will  be  to-morrow,  Monseigneur,  I  cannot 
say.  The  King  has  been  pleased  to  do  no  more  to-day 
than  what  I  have  said. ' ' 

"And  a  very  pretty  day's  work  it  has  been,"  his 
Grace  replied.  "  Well,  ladies,  I  have  only  one  piece 


214  No.  101 

of  advice  to  offer  you.  Smile,  smile,  smile,  for  if  you 
protest  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour  will  turn 
her  attention  to  you.  Do  not  forget  that  she  has  a 
pretty  bourgeoise  daughter  eight  years  old  to  whom 
the  post  of  maid  of  honour  to  her  Majesty  would  be  a 
delightful  and  profitable  education." 

He  saluted  the  company,  and  taking  most  of  the 
men  with  him  withdrew,  for  the  situation  was  suffi- 
ciently grave  to  demand  an  instant  conference. 

All  the  heart  and  gaiety  had  already  been  struck 
out  of  the  ladies.  The  Chevalier's  dejected  air,  so 
strange  to  his  careless  and  irrepressible  spirit,  was  the 
most  telling  comment  on  the  menace  in  his  news.  To 
the  angry  indignation  and  rapid  questions  of  the  ladies 
he  now  replied  with  melancholy  brevity.  The  King 
was  infatuated  and  obdurate,  and  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour was  plainly  determined  to  make  him  the  instru- 
ment of  her  vulgar  vengeance. 

"  She  has  captured  the  King,"  the  young  man  re- 
marked in  his  gloomiest  tones.  "  She  will  now  coerce 
the  Queen.  Her  ambition  is  to  be  mistress  of  the  robes 
and  thus  to  rule  all  Versailles." 

The  mere  suggestion  of  such  an  outrage  on  precedent 
and  etiquette  made  the  ladies  speechless  with  horror. 
A  bourgeoise  mistress  of  the  robes  !  It  was  unthink- 
able— blasphemous.  As  if  her  Majesty  in  dressing 
could  take  even  the  simplest  garment  except  from  the 
hands  of  a  princess  of  the  blood  or  of  a  duchess. 

"You  forget,  Madame,"    the  Chevalier  remarked 


Denise'  s  Answer  2 1 5 

drily,  "  that  the  King's  will  is  law.  Le  Roi  gouverne 
par  lui-m£me. " 

They  were  the  words  of  Louis  XIV.  To-day  they 
can  still  be  read  as  the  motto  of  Le  Roi  Soleil  in  the 
centre  of  the  superb  ceiling  of  that  Galerie  des  Glaces 
at  Versailles  which  enshrines  for  all  generations  the 
imperial  ambitions  of  the  king  who  made  it.  Arro- 
gant words,  but  true. 

The  antechamber  became  gradually  deserted.  The 
Chevalier  stood  at  the  window  watching  the  gathering 
gloom.  His  dejection  was  not  acting.  His  boyish 
face  was  almost  tragic  in  its  gravity.  Presently  he  rose 
and  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  wrestling  with  his 
thoughts,  until  he  became  suddenly  aware  that  Denise 
had  re-entered  and  was  looking  at  him  in  questioning 
silence. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  advanced  to  meet  her.  "I  have 
no  comfort  for  you.  Before  long  I  shall  be  bidding 
you  adieu  for  ever." 

Her  eyes  invited  an  explanation,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"I  speak  seriously,"  he  proceeded.  "You  and  your 
friends,  Mademoiselle,  are  aware  that  I  am  with  you 
heart  and  soul  in  the  desire  to  overthrow  this  woman 
who  will  ruin  us  all.  I  have  been  able  in  the  past,  as 
you  know,  to  do  some  service  to  the  cause  by  bringing 
you  information  that  I  learned  as  His  Majesty's  confi- 
dential secretary.  At  your  request  I  have  to  the  best 
of  my  power  abstained  from  appearing  publicly  to  be 


216  No.  101 

otyour  party,  for  His  Majesty  is  suspicious  and  jealous. 
But  I  fear  from  to-day  my  services  must  end." 

' '  Why  ? ' '  The  single  word  revealed  both  anxiety 
and  sympathy. 

"  His  Majesty  has  signified  that  for  the  present  he 
will  conduct  his  private  correspondence  by  himself.  It 
is  the  first  step.  The  next  will  be  that  His  Majesty  no 
longer  needs  my  services  in  any  capacity,  that  I  am 
free,"  he  laughed  with  gentle  bitterness,  "  to  leave 
Versailles.  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  I  can  no  longer  help 
your  cause." 

"  That — that  woman — "  Denise  began. 

"  Certainly.  This  is  her  doing.  I  stood  between 
her  and  such  secrets  as  His  Majesty  was  pleased  to  en- 
trust to  me,  secrets  not  known  to  ministers  and  to  the 
Court.  So  long  as  I  was  private  secretary  that  woman 
was  not  the  King's  master.  But  when  I  am  finally 
dismissed  she  will  rule  the  King  body  and  soul." 

"  Oh,  cannot  it  be  stopped? " 

"  No,  Marquise.  I  am  not  as  his  grace  of  Pout- 
chartrain  a  great  noble,  not  even  a  Comptroller- Gen- 
eral. I  am  the  King's  creature,  just  as  she  is.  His 
Majesty  made  me,  His  Majesty  can  unmake  me  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

"This  is  dreadful,"  Denise  murmured.  "Without 
your  help,  your  information,  your  private  influence 
with  the  King,  we  shall  be  beaten,  humiliated,  ruined. 
You  have  been  a  true  friend  to  our  cause,  Chevalier." 

The  young  man  bowed.     "I  have  done  my  best," 


Denise's  Answer  217 

he  said  with  unmistakable  sincerity;  "  that  Madame  de 
Pompadour  should  triumph  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  But 
when  I  am  obliged  to  leave  Versailles  her  victory  will 
not  be  my  only  grief. ' ' 

Denise  looked  up  at  him.  His  tone  had  completely 
altered. 

"  I  shall  leave  you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  simply, 
"  and  I  love  you.  Ah!  it  is  the  truth,  the  bare  truth. 
You  are  a  great  noble,  I  am  only  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Amant,  a  parvenu  tolerated  by  the  Court  merely  be- 
cause he  is  useful  to  them.  It  is  presumption  in  me  to 
dare  to  love  you.  But  even  a  parvenu's  heart  can  love. 
This  cause  is  sacred  to  me  because  not  your  beauty,  nor 
your  nobility,  nor  your  wealth,  but  the  womanhood 
that  is  the  greatest  gift  of  God  to  you  has  taught  me 
what  you  are — has  taught  me  that  your  service  can  be 
all  that  a  man  could  desire." 

"  Monsieur "  Denise  began,  but  the  words  failed 

her. 

"  I  had  hoped  that  some  day  I  might,  perhaps,  have 
dared  to  do  more — to  ask  for  your  love  in  return.  But 
that  is  impossible — impossible." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  Denise  asked  in  a  low  voice,  almost  as  if  she 
were  talking  to  herself. 

"Yes,  Marquise,  because  you  love  another." 

She  looked  up  half  angrily,  half  inquiringly. 
"No,"  she  answered  as  he  was  still  silent,  "I  do 
not." 

St.    Amant    resumed    his    pacing   up    and    down. 


2i8  No.  101 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  presently,  "are  you  aware 
how  the  King  can  be  stopped  in  his  present  course  ?  ' ' 

Denise  turned  eagerly  towards  him.  "  Madame  de 
Pompadour,"  he  added  very  slowly,  "  is  only  a  woman, 
but  she  has  an  ally,  the  Vicornte  de  Nerac,  the  ablest, 
subtlest  brain  in  all  Versailles.  He  is  ambitious;  he 
loves  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour — hear  me  out, 
please.  Take  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  from  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  make  him  her  enemy,  not  her  friend, 
and " 

"You  believe  that?"  she  interrupted. 

"Unfortunately  it  cannot  be  done,"  he  replied  with 
decision.  "Andre  de  Nerac  has  chosen  his  party  and 
he  will  not  be  turned  aside.  Therefore  the  only  other 
course  is  to  ruin  him.  Publish  to  the  world  that  he  is 
Madame' s  spy,  that  he  has  the  key  of  Madame' s  secret 
passage  in  his  pocket,  publish  what  I  have  told  you 
and  you  compel  me  to  keep  a  secret,  and  you  can  ruin 
him  to-morrow." 

Denise  drew  a  deep  breath.  Something  like  terror 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  information,"  continued  the  Chevalier  very 
quietly,  "that  if  made  known  to  the  King  would  ruin 
the  Vicomte  to-night.  Am  I  to  use  it  or  not  ?  It  is  for 
you,  Marquise,  to  say." 

Denise' s  lips  paled.  Her  hand  unconsciously  crept 
to  her  throat.  "  What  sort  of  information  ?  "  she  asked 
in  a  dry  whisper. 

"  That,  Mademoiselle,  must  be  my  secret.     But  I  do 


Denise's  Answer  219 

not  jest  when  I  say  that  you  can  ruin  Madame  de 
Pompadour  to-day,  but  you  will  also  most  certainly 
ruin  the  Vicomtede  Nerac  at  the  same  time.  Am  I 
to  keep  silent  or  to  reveal  the  whole  truth  to  the 
Comte  d' Argenson  and  the  President  of  the  Council  of 
Ministers  ? ' ' 

Denise  stood  pale  and  trembling.  Her  eyes  looked 
on  her  questioner  with  a  dumb  piteousness  cruel  to 
behold. 

"  You  have  answered  me,  Marquise,"  he  replied  after 
an  agitating  pause.  ' '  I  shall  hold  my  tongue,  and  for- 
give me,  I  beg,  that  I  have  been  so  merciless.  But 
love  is  merciless  and  blind."  He  took  her  hand.  "  If 
you  doubt  that  a  parvenu  can  love  you  better  far  than 
he  loves  himself,  think  of  my  silence.  When  I  am 
driven  from  Versailles  do  not  forget  that  I  refused  to 
speak  the  truth  of  one  who  regards  me  as  his  enemy,  at 
your  bidding.  Adieu  !  " 

In  the  doorway  he  paused  to  look  back.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  wavered.  Denise  had  stumbled  to  a  chair  and 
was  crying  softly.  ' '  Soil  /  "  he  muttered,  throwing  up 
his  head,  "Soit!"  and  humming  a  reckless  catch  he 
strode  down  the  gallery. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   HEART  OP  THE   POMPADOUR 

AFTER  he  had  left  Denise  the  Chevalier  walked  for 
some  time  in  the  empty  gallery  up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  striving  to  master  the  strong  emotion  within. 
But  when  at  last  he  made  his  way  into  the  gardens 
he  was  once  more  the  jaunty  dare-devil  cynic  whose 
fine  blue  eyes  had  made  many  a  Court  beauty  feel 
that  even  the  veteran  Vicomte  de  Nerac  had  lessons  to 
learn  in  the  art  of  courtship.  By  the  same  Fountain 
of  Neptune  where  he  had  met  Denise  the  Chevalier 
now  found  a  woman  waiting,  as  indeed  he  expected. 
Yet,  greeting  scarcely  passed  between  them. 

"You  were  right,"  he  began  with  bitter  brevity, 
"  and  you  have  had  your  way." 

The  woman  pondered  on  the  reply.  "  Yes,"  she  said 
presently.  "I  knew  I  was  right.  She  loves  him. 
And  you  ?  "  she  added,  with  a  swift  touch  of  anxiety. 

"  I  shall  finish  what  I  have  begun,"  he  answered 
with  calm  determination.  "  It  will  cost  me  my  life, 
perhaps,  but,"  his  tone  was  savagely  reckless,  "re- 
venge is  better  than  love." 

220 


The  Heart  of  the  Pompadour      221 

The  woman  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  affectionate 
entreaty.  ' '  Why  not, ' '  she  asked,  ' '  why  not  give  it  all 
up  ?  It  is  becoming  too  dangerous. ' ' 

"  Dangerous  ?  Of  course.  But  it  is  too  late  to  draw 
back,  and  I  will  keep  my  oath  now — now,"  he  re- 
peated, lingering  on  the  word,  "  if  I  perish  to-morrow." 
He  put  his  hand  quietly  on  her  shoulder  and  looked 
into  her  eyes.  "  You,  too,  some  day  will  come  to  be- 
lieve that  revenge  is  better  than  love." 

"  At  least  we  have  no  choice,"  she  answered  with  a 
cruel  little  laugh. 

"  Don't !  don't,"  the  Chevalier  whispered,  in  a  sud- 
den tenderness.  ' '  What  does  it  matter  for  me  ?  but 
you — you — I  can't  bear  it  for  you." 

"It  is  fate,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  your  fate  and 
mine." 

With  his  arm  about  her  she  stood  in  silence  for  no 
small  while.  They  were  both  thinking  their  own 
thoughts,  and  they  were  not  pleasant. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  he  loves  her?  "  the  Chevalier 
asked. 

"  I  shall  know  for  certain  before  many  days,"  she 
answered,  "although  a  woman  feels  sure  now." 

They  parted,  as  they  had  met,  without  greeting,  but 
had  the  Chevalier  followed  her  he  would  have  seen  that 
the  woman  went  in  the  direction  of  "  The  Cock  with 
the  Spurs  of  Gold."  It  was  probably  because  he  al- 
ready knew  this  that  he  returned  to  the  palace. 

All  this  time  Denise  had  sat  crushed  and  sad,  alone 


222  NO.  IOI 

in  the  antechamber.  Nor  did  she  know  that  Andre 
had  stood  for  some  minutes  in  the  doorway  looking  at 
her,  had  twice  stepped  forward  to  speak,  had  twice  re- 
strained himself,  and  finally  had  left  her  to  her  tears  and 
her  silence. 

But  the  one  person  whom  he  did  not  desire  to  meet 
found  him  out  by  accident  at  that  moment. 

"  Vicomte,"  the  Comtesse  des  Forges  called  softly, 
"  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  " 

Andre  smiled  with  skilful  hypocrisy.  The  Comtesse 
was  looking  her  best,  and  her  heavy-lidded  eyes  were 
bright  with  admiration  and  an  exquisite  suggestion  of 
self-surrender.  "A  favour,"  she  repeated,  "which 
is  also  a  secret.  You  will  promise  not  to  betray 
me." 

Andre  took  her  hand  to  his  lips  for  answer.  The 
jewel  on  the  lady's  breast  gently  rose  and  fell,  echoing 
tenderly  the  coy  trembling  of  her  fingers.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  these  two  had  played  with  passion,  heed- 
less of  the  future,  but  Andr£  swiftly  recognised  that 
this  evening  it  would  not  be  play,  pastime,  or  pleasure. 

"  We  have  a  petition  to  the  King,"  the  Comtesse  said 
in  her  silkiest  tones,  "  a  petition  from  the  Court  pray- 
ing His  Majesty  to  dismiss  that  woman,  and  we  want 
you  to  present  it.  His  Majesty  will  listen  to  you  more 
than  to  any  other." 

Andre"  still  held  her  hand;  the  devotion  in  his  face 
was  intended  to  conceal  his  thoughts.  For  the  crisis 
that  he  feared  had  come.  This  petition  to  the  King 


The  Heart  of  the  Pompadour      223 

from  the  Court  was  also  an  ultimatum  to  himself  from 
his  friends. 

"  It  will  be  useless,"  he  said  gently,  "  the  petition." 

"No — no!  You  can  succeed  with  the  King — you! 
Andre,"  she  pleaded  with  a  thrill  of  genuine  passion, 
"do  it  to  please  me.  You  know  I  can  be  grate- 
ful." 

"I  cannot,"  he  replied,  controlling  himself,  "not 
even  to  please  you,  Gabrielle." 

"You  will  desert  your  friends  and  me — me?"  she 
asked,  a  menace  creeping  into  her  languorous  voice. 
"  Andre,  it  is  impossible,  surely  impossible." 

"  I  cannot  present  the  petition,"  he  answered. 

Jealousy,  fear,  anger,  swept  the  passion  out  of  her 
eyes.  ' '  You  are  afraid  ? ' '  she  demanded,  with  biting 
scorn. 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid,"  he  assented,  and  if  the  Comtesse 
had  not  lost  her  self-control  she  must  have  detected  the 
delicate  irony  in  his  grave  bow. 

"Ah!"  she  stepped  back.  "Ah!  If  Denise  had 
asked  you,  you  would  have  consented." 

"No,"  he  corrected  with  a  freezing  pride.  "I 
would  not  permit  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  even 
to  make  the  request." 

The  answer  surprised  and  delighted  her.  Yet,  wo- 
man though  she  was,  the  Comtesse  failed  to  read  what 
lay  behind  it,  and  in  her  determination  to  win  she  now 
made  a  stupid  mistake.  "  I  would  save  you,  Andre," 
she  whispered,  "because—"  she  laid  a  jewelled  hand 


224  No.  101 

on  his  sleeve  and  dropped  her  eyes  slowly.  "They 
will  ruin  you  unless  you  consent." 

Why  break  with  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  ? 
Andre  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

4 '  I  cannot  present  the  petition, ' '  he  answered  curtly. 

"  Very  well,"  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  disdain- 
ful wrath.  "  Very  well.  I  shall  not  ask  you  a  second 
time.  You  understand;  so  do  I." 

44 Adieu!"  he  said,  raising  her  fingers,  but  she 
snatched  them  back  and  swept  him  a  cold  curtsey. 

4  *  Soil !  ' '  Andre  was  saying  to  himself  as  his  spurs 
rang  in  the  empty  corridor,  4<  dest  la  guerre  !  Soit ! ' ' 
The  die  was  cast.  Madame  de  Pompadour  was  his 
only  friend  now.  Henceforward  the  Court,  his  friends, 
his  class,  the  women  whom  he  had  loved,  would  be  his 
bitterest  foes.  And  it  was  to  that  one  friend  that  he 
now  turned.  Yet,  careful  as  he  was,  he  was  unaware 
that  the  Comtesse  had  followed  him  stealthily,  had 
marked  his  entry  by  the  secret  door,  and  returned  to 
the  Duke  of  Pontchartrain  with  the  news. 

Madame  de  Pompadour  was  alone.  "You  have 
something  to  say  ?  "  she  questioned  eagerly. 

Andre  related  what  had  just  passed  and  Madame 
laughed.  "Ah,  my  friend,"  she  remarked  gaily,  "it 
will  need  more  than  a  petition  to-day."  She  flung 
herself  back  into  her  chair,  her  wonderful  eyes  ablaze 
with  a  magnificently  carnal  consciousness  of  victorious 
beauty  and  power.  ' 4  And  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  can- 
not go  back  now,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  gravity. 


The  Heart  of  the  Pompadour      225 

"The  priests,  the  nobles,  the  officers  might  forgive  you, 
but  a  woman,  a  comtesse,  will  neither  forget  nor  for- 
give, never,  never ! ' ' 

"Yes,  Madame,"  Andre"  said,  "I  am  in  your 
hands." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  moved  swiftly  towards  him. 
"  And  I  in  yours,"  she  whispered. 

The  perfect  music  of  her  voice,  the  grace  of  her  fig- 
ure, the  flash  in  her  eyes,  were  irresistible.  Compared 
with  this  radiant,  triumphant  goddess  of  a  royal  love, 
even  Gabrielle  des  Forges  seemed  a  bloodless,  heartless 
puppet. 

"  I  have  more  to  say,"  Andr6  proceeded,  "  I  verily 
believe  I  am  on  the  track  of  '  No.  101.'  "  She  turned 
sharply,  her  breath  came  quickly.  "Yvonne,"  fhe 
added,  "  Yvonne  is  proving  very  useful.  I  have  learned 
from  her  that  the  English  have  a  spy,  an  agent  in 
Paris,  that  he  frequents  '  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of 
Gold,'  that  he  has  a  paid  servant  at  the  palace.  Before 

long  I  mean  to  have  that  spy  in  fetters,  and  then " 

he  laughed. 

' '  Good — good  ! ' '  Madame  clapped  her  hands.  "  It 
is  only  what  I  suspected.  And  the  wench,  Yvonne,  is 
she  in  it?" 

"  She  is  a  simple  girl,  Madame,  and  I  cannot  say  yet. 
But  in  another  week  I  shall  know  more." 

"  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry.  It  is  pleasant  cajoling  the 
truth  from  a  wench,  ri1  est-ce  pas  ?  We  must  act  with 
extreme  caution,  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  for 


226  No.  ioi 

you  and  me.  I,  too,  have  not  been  idle.  Listen. 
The  Eling's  secret  is  mine." 

Andre  looked  at  her  sorely  puzzled.  Madame  in- 
vited him  to  sit  beside  her  on  the  settee.  ' '  What  is 
that  secret?"  she  began.  "  Simply  this  :  Behind  the 
ministers'  backs,  contrary  indeed  to  their  despatches 
and  their  public  statements,  His  Majesty  is  intriguing 
with  the  Jacobites  and  others  too.  More,  His  Majesty 
both  in  Paris  and  elsewhere  spies  on  his  own  servants 
and  frequently  thwarts  them.  The  Chevalier  was  his 
secretary  and  confidant.  But  there  will  be  no  more 
Chevalier.  There  will  henceforth  only  be, ' '  she  sprung 
up  with  a  dramatic  gesture,  ' '  the  Marquise  de  Pompa- 
dour." 

"But  why,"  asked  Andre*  slowly,  "why  does  His 
Majesty  do  it?" 

"  God  knows.  It  is  his  foible,  his  passion.  But  so 
long  as  he  had  secrets  from  me  I  was  in  constant  peril. 
To-day  I  have  learned  all  that  there  is  to  know;  and 
now,"  she  paused,  "and  now,  please  Heaven,  the  King 
will  be  in  my  hands  alone." 

Andre  was  beginning  to  understand.  "  The  King, 
in  fact,"  he  commented,  "says  one  thing  to  the  Eng- 
lish ministers  who  desire  peace  and  another  to  the 
Jacobites;  that  may  prove  desperately  dangerous  if  it  is 
discovered." 

"  Exactly.  And  the  master  of  his  secret  is  master  of 
His  Majesty.  Ah,  my  friend,  my  foes  are  learning  that 
already,  but  it  will  need  some  sharper  lessons  before 


The  Heart  of  the  Pompadour      227 

they  submit.  They  shall  have  those  lessons,  I  promise 
you.  I  have  accepted  the  challenge  of  the  Court  and 
we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see. ' ' 

"Yes,  Madame,"  Andre  said  with  sincere  admira- 
tion, "  you  will  be  what  you  desire  to  be,  the  ruler  of 
France." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  drifted  into  a  silent  reverie. 
The  dreams  could  be  read  in  her  parted  lips  and  faint 
smile  as  the  soft  light  played  on  every  supple  curve 
which  this  woman's  genius  knew  how  to  suggest  with 
such  subtle  restraint. 

"But  one  person  can  destroy  me,"  she  remarked 
presently;  "  'No.  101.'  " 

Andre"  was  startled  by  the  gravity  of  her  voice.  "  It 
is  the  truth,"  she  was  speaking  now  with  nervous 
rapidity.  "  If,  which  God  forbid,  the  King's  secret  in- 
trigues are  betrayed  by  treachery,  to  save  his  honour 
and  himself  he  will,  must,  find  a  victim.  That  victim 
will  be  I.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  the  game  is  dangerous, 
but  play  it  I  must  because  the  King  insists.  Vicomte, 
'  No.  101 '  must  never,  never  succeed  in  securing 
any  of  the  King's  secrets  as  has  happened  in  the 
past." 

"Surely,  Madame,  you  and  I  can  prevent  that." 

' '  Can  we  ?  Can  we  ?  Vicomte,  I  am  not  a  coward 
nor  a  fool,  but  I  feel  in  the  poisonous  air  of  this  Court, 
surrounded  by  deadly  enemies,  my  fate  at  the  mercy  of 
the  King's  caprice,  that  I  am  fighting  not  with  flesh 
and  blood  but  with  a  foe  mysterious,  superhuman, 


228  No.  ioi 

invincible.  And  I  repeat,  should  the  King's  secret  be 
betrayed  by  '  No.  ioi '  to  my  enemies  I  am  ruined." 

"  I  am  confident,"  Andr6  answered,  "  that  not  only 
can  I  baffle  that  traitor  but  that  I  can  discover  him." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  studied  his  calm,  handsome 
face.  Then  the  room  seemed  suddenly  to  swim  in  the 
glories  of  a  golden  dawn.  "My  friend,"  she  cried, 
holding  out  both  her  hands  impulsively,  "I  believe 
you.  Did  not  Foutenoy  teach  me  you  are  a  man  ? ' ' 

' '  And  it  taught  me — ' '  he  began  softly. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  rippled  over  into  an  adorable  coquetry. 
"You  are  not  the  King  yet,  not  yet,  though — "  it 
was  the  vivand&re  of  Fontenoy  whose  saucy  eyes  and 
curtsey  finished  the  sentence. 

"When  you  are  victorious,  Madame,"  Andre"  said, 
"  I  shall  ask  for  one  favour." 

"  Tut !  only  one  !     Dare  I  grant  it  beforehand  ?  " 

She  was  now  the  refined  Marquise  of  a  remorselessly 
critical  Versailles. 

"  You  can  take  your  revenge  on  the  Court,  Madame, 
as  you  please,  but  you  must  spare, ' '  she  put  down  her  fan 
and  waited  anxiously,  "  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute. 

"A  woman,  a  haughty,  petted  beauty,"  she  mur- 
mured, "and  my  bitterest  foe.  Are  you  aware  that 
Mademoiselle  Denise  is  the  soul  of  the  party  that 
would  destroy  me,  the  close  friend  of  the  Chevalier  de 
St.  Amant,  and  no  friend  to  you." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  all." 


The  Heart  of  the  Pompadour      229 

Madame  de  Pompadour  came  close  to  him.  ' '  She  is 
not  worthy  of  you,"  she  said  quietly,  "she  does  not 
love  you." 

"  Madame,  I  love  her." 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  forego  my  just  vengeance  on 
her?"  she  awaited  his  answer  with  anxiety  wreathed 
in  tempting  smiles. 

"  I  will  share  her  fate  if  she  will  permit  it,"  he  an- 
swered simply. 

"Chivalrous  fool!"  she  retorted,  and  she  was  not 
wholly  jesting.  "  No  woman  is  worth  the  sacrifice  of 
such  a  man  as  you." 

Pardon,  Madame.  Every  man  who  loves  a  woman 
perhaps  is  a  fool,  but  the  folly  is  a  folly  inspired  by 
God  and  it  leads  to  heaven." 

The  answer  surprised  her  and  for  the  moment  she 
faltered  between  tears  and  laughter.  "  I  will  not  ask 
again,"  Andr6  said  in  a  low  voice,  "for  I  trust  you, 
Marquise.  Adieu  ! ' ' 

She  hardly  heeded  his  salute,  and  Andre1  was  already 
in  the  dark  on  the  secret  stairs  when  he  felt  a  sharp 
touch  on  his  shoulder.  "Be  loyal  to  me,  too!"  she 
whispered  pleadingly  into  his  ear.  "Give  me  your 
hand,"  and  she  laid  it  on  her  breast.  In  the  darkful 
hush  Andre  could  feel  the  fierce  beating  of  that  insur- 
gent, ambitious  heart. 

"  Swear,"  she  whispered.  "  Swear  with  your  hand 
there  that  you  will  be  loyal  also  to  me,  to  Antoinette 
de  Pompadour." 


230  No.  101 

"I  swear."  Two  words,  but  two  words  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  can  sweep  a  soul  into  hell  or  lift  it 
to  heaven. 

"The  heart  of  the  Pompadour,"  she  murmured. 
"Can  any  man  or  woman  read  it?  Can  she  read  it 
herself  ?  God  knows.  Take  care,  take  care  of  your- 
self, my  friend,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  wistful 
pathos.  "  You  alone  I  can  trust.  Adieu  !  " 

"The heart  of  the  Pompadour,"  Andre  muttered  as 
he  stole  back  to  the  Queen's  apartments.  "The  heart 
of  the  Pompadour."  What,  indeed,  was  there  not 
written  there  of  passion  and  ambition  ?  Only  a  wom- 
an's heart.  Yes,  but  one  of  the  half-dozen  women, 
in  the  history  of  the  world,  the  beatings  of  whose 
heart  have  shaped  the  destinies  of  peoples  and  moulded 
the  fate  of  kingdoms. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  FI.OWER  GIRL  OP  "THE  GAI^OWS  AND  THE 
THREE  CROWS  ' ' 

ANDRE  had  understated  the  truth  to  Madame  de 
Pompadour  when  he  said  that  he  had  learned  much 
from  Yvonne.  Bit  by  bit  her  simple  confessions  had 
convinced  him  that  "The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of 
Gold ' '  played  an  important  part  in  the  inscrutable  mys- 
tery of  successful  treachery  summed  up  in  the  blood- 
stained cipher  of  "No.  101."  Yvonne  indeed  sorely 
puzzled  him.  She  was  only  a  hired  wench  at  this  hos- 
telry kept  by  a  man  and  his  wife  against  whom  nothing 
discreditable  could  be  ferreted  out.  And  he  had  utterly 
failed  to  break  down  the  barriers  of  her  simplicity.  She 
related  things  she  had  seen  or  heard  which  to  Andr6 
with  his  knowledge  of  the  facts  were  damningly  con- 
clusive, but  that  she  was  aware  of  this  was  contradicted 
at  every  turn  by  her  speech,  her  gestures,  her  amazing 
innocence.  In  vain  had  he  laid  pitfall  after  pitfall  to 
catch  her  tripping.  Not  one  syllable,  one  flutter  of  an 
eyelid,  one  blush,  one  faltering  tone,  had  rewarded  his 
cunningest  or  his  most  artless  efforts.  The  girl  had 
passed  ordeal  after  ordeal  just  as  a  peasant  wench 

231 


232  No.  101 

should  who  was  only  a  peasant  wench.  Yet  every  fail- 
ure only  deepened  the  feeling  that  Yvonne  was  not 
merely  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless  Ankles ;  proof  he  had 
none;  proof  indeed  pointed  to  the  very  reverse.  Andr£ 
had  nothing  but  a  vague,  indefinable,  apparently  irra- 
tional, suspicion,  and  it  maddened  him.  In  the  critical 
struggle  on  which  he  had  now  embarked  he  was  con- 
vinced he  was  being  beaten,  tricked  by  a  woman;  she 
held,  if  he  were  right,  the  keys  which  would  unlock 
the  mystery  and  she  was  simply  playing  with  him,  no 
doubt  for  her  own  ends;  she  was  probably  betraying 
him  daily  to  her  accursed  allies.  Worse  still,  because 
it  was  ridiculous  as  he  felt  it,  there  was  an  inexplicable 
charm  in  this  girl  which  threatened  to  master  him. 
Despite  Denise  and  Madame  de  Pompadour  and  the 
Comtesse  des  Forges  and  half  a  dozen  other  refined  and 
attractive  women  at  the  Court  to  inspire  love  and  grat- 
ify passion,  he,  Andre  de  Nerac,  a  Cordon  Bleu,  a 
Croix  de  St.  Louis,  a  noble  of  the  Maison  du  Roi,  was 
in  danger  of  falling  a  victim  to  an  unkempt  peasant 
with  a  smudged  face.  Yvonne  told  him  things  emi- 
nently useful,  Yvonne  baffled  him,  but  these  were 
not  the  only  reasons  why  daily  he  went  to  see  her. 
And  he  had  discovered  this  humiliating  fact  by  trying 
to  answer  a  torturing  question.  If  he  could  prove 
Yvonne  to  be  a  traitor  or  the  ally  of  traitors,  was  he 
ready  to  hand  her  over  to  the  awful  mercies  of  the 
King's  justice  ?  And  if  not,  why  not  ?  Supposing  he 
could  show  that  she  was  the  woman  who  had  foiled 


The  Flower  Girl  233 

him  in  the  charcoal-burner's  cabin  at  Fontenoy,  what 
then  ?  And  his  heart  revolted  in  its  answer  against  his 
reason  :  "  No,  I  cannot;  I  cannot  leave  Denise  to  the 
vengeance  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  because  I  love 
her;  I  cannot  give  Yvonne  to  the  rack,  the  execution- 
er's whip  and  wheel,  because" — and  then  he  always 
stopped,  because  he  had  not  the  courage  even  in  the 
most  intimate  sanctuary  of  his  conscience  to  finish  the 
answer. 

But  discover  the  mystery  he  must  more  than  ever 
now.  His  own  fate  and  Madame  de  Pompadour's 
hung  on  success.  The  war  was  drawing  to  an  end;  the 
negotiations  for  peace  were  beginning.  If  the  King's 
secrets  were  betrayed  as  in  the  past  Madame  would  be 
disgraced.  Andre  had  deliberately  broken  with  his 
friends  and  his  order.  Their  implacable  lust  for  ven- 
geance on  the  mistress  would  require  his  punishment 
too.  The  issue  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  Either  he 
must  crush  them  or  they  would  crush  him.  And  suc- 
ceed he  must,  because  success  alone  meant  safety,  hon- 
our, and  the  love  of  Deuise. 

And  so,  after  leaving  Madame  de  Pompadour,  Andr6 
went  as  usual  straight  to  Yvonne,  whom  he  found  in 
the  stalls  feeding  the  spotted  cow.  "The  English- 
man," she  informed  him,  "  has  been  here,  Monseigneur. 
He  spoke  with  a  gentleman  from  the  Court.  I  only 
know  that  to-morrow  night  they  will  meet  at  a  tavern 
in  Paris;  they  called  it  '  The  Gallows  and  the  Three 
Crows.'  " 


234  No.  101 

Andre"  took  the  lantern  from  her  and  let  the  light  fall 
on  her  stained  face. 

"  And  this  tavern,  where  is  it?  "  he  demanded. 

Yvonne  met  his  gaze  with  the  calmness  of  innocent 
ignorance.  ' '  Monseigneur,  I  do  not  know.  I  have 
never  been  in  Paris." 

"  You  will  swear  you  heard  it  as  you  say  ?  " 

"  Surely.     They  said  the  name  twice." 

"And  the  gentleman  from  the  Court?" 

"  His  cloak  was  over  his  face,  but  I  think — I  am  cer- 
tain— it  was  Monsieur  the  Chevalier." 

Andre  had  heard  enough.  His  blood  was  tingling 
with  passion  and  excitement.  ' '  You  have  done  me  a 
great  service,  Yvonne, ' '  he  cried. 

Yvonne  very  modestly  disengaged  the  arm  which  for 
the  first  time  he  had  slipped  about  her  supple  waist. 
"Monseigneur  must  not  kiss  me,"  she  whispered, 
humbly.  "  I  cannot  betray  my  lover  even  to  you, 
sir." 

Andr6  started  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  a  crime. 
"You  have  a  lover,  Yvonne?"  he  exclaimed. 

The  girl  threw  back  her  shock  of  matted  hair  and 
laughed.  "  Many  lovers,"  she  said,  looking  down  at 
her  clumsy  sabots,  "but  only  one  dares  to  kiss  me. 
"  Would  it  be  wrong  ?  "  she  inquired  thoughtfully,  "  for 
me  to  let  Monseigneur  kiss  me,  too  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Andre*,  still  in  the  grip  of  passion. 

"Then  Monseigneur  will  do  as  he  pleases,"  she  an- 
swered quietly.  "  I  am  his  servant  and,"  she  laughed, 


Yvonne  very  modestly  disengaged  the  arm  which  for  the  first  time  he 
had  slipped  about  her  supple  waist. 


The  Flower  Girl  235 

"  a  peasant  girl  would  remember  the  kiss  of  a  grand 
gentleman  who  has  surely  kissed  many  great  ladies." 

There  was  no  satire  in  her  voice,  and  the  roguish 
gleam  in  her  eyes  was  simply  bright  with  an  innocent 
vanity,  yet  the  words  fell  like  ice-cold  water  on  molten 
steel. 

41  Damn  her  !  "  was  Andre's  savage  comment  as  he 
galloped  back  to  the  palace.  Was  she  playing  with 
him  or  was  it  sheer  nazveti  of  soul? — for  as  usual 
Yvonne  had  in  her  mysterious  way  lured  him  on  and 
then  administered  a  humiliating  rebuke. 

The  tavern  with  the  grim  name  of4 'The  Gallows 
and  the  Three  Crows"  lay  in  the  mouth  of  a  slum  on 
the  south  side  of  the  river,  and  when  Andr6,  cloaked 
and  disguised  to  the  best  of  his  power,  entered  its  dark 
parlour  he  recognised  that  the  police  were  not  wrong 
in  telling  him  it  was  partly  a  gaming  hell,  partly  the 
haunt  of  the  select  of  the  scum,  male  and  female,  of 
Paris,  the  rendezvous  for  the  low  amours  of  bullies, 
sharpers,  and  broken  gentry,  and  the  women  who  were 
their  victims  or  their  tools.  He  felt  that  the  half-dozen 
occupants  of  the  room  eyed  his  swaggering  entry  with 
the  keenest  interest,  but  it  was  not  his  first  introduction 
to  such  resorts,  and  a  soldier  of  half  a  dozen  campaigns 
and  a  swordsman  of  his  quality  knew  no  fear.  Nor 
was  the  wine  so  bad,  and  the  flower  girl  who  impudently 
took  a  seat  at  once  at  his  table,  though  he  could  scarcely 
see  her  face  in  the  gloom,  promised  some  pleasant  fun, 


236  No.  101 

when  she  had  ceased  to  turn  her  back  on  him  and 
to  chaff  a  man  at  the  next  table. 

Nothing  in  particular,  however,  happened  until  a 
figure  heavily  cloaked  rose  from  the  further  corner,  and 
as  he  passed  the  flower  girl  tapped  her  familiarly  on  the 
shoulder.  She  looked  up,  started  unmistakably,  and 
Andre  noticed  the  man  had  tried  to  slip  a  piece  of  paper 
into  her  basket  of  flowers.  Unnoticed  by  both,  the  pa- 
per fell  on  the  dirty  sanded  floor  among  the  refuse,  and 
in  a  trice  Andre  had  his  foot  on  it. 

He  felt  his  heart  beating  like  a  sledge  hammer.  He 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man's  face — the  same  face 
that  had  puzzled  him  behind  the  trees  near  ' '  The 
Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold."  Ah!  the  memories 
rushed  in  on  him.  Yes  ;  he  remembered  now,  of  course, 
he  had  seen  that  face  in  the  glare  of  the  flaming  char- 
coal-burner's cabin  and  in  London  at  a  supper  party. 
It  was  the  face  of  George  Onslow,  an  Englishman. 
Yvonne  had  not  been  mistaken.  Onslow  was  the  Eng- 
lish spy  in  Paris.  Onslow  at  Fontenoy  had  come  to 
receive  the  plans  from  "No.  101."  Ha!  should  he 
follow  him  ?  Yes  ?  No  ?  Before  he  could  decide  he 
recognised  two  other  men  drinking  carelessly  but 
stealthily  watching  the  room.  These  were  servants, 
trusted  servants,  of  the  Duke  de  Pontchartrain  and  the 
Comte  de  Mont  Rouge.  What  the  devil  were  they 
doing  here?  By  accident,  or  to  meet  some  wench 
of  the  town,  or  as  spies  on  whom  or  what  ? 

George  Ouslow  had  meanwhile  disappeared.     The 


The  Flower  Girl  237 

flower  girl,  too,  humming  a  catch,  was  slipping  away. 
Andre  stooped  to  pick  up  the  piece  of  paper,  but  by 
the  time  he  had  reached  the  door,  pest  on  her  nimble 
heels,  she,  too,  had  vanished!  And  Andre"  was  only 
conscious  that  the  two  servants  were  following  him  out. 
Ah,  that  was  their  game,  was  it  ?  Calling  for  another 
bottle  of  wine,  he  went  back  to  the  table,  and  imme- 
diately the  pair  returned  to  their  seat.  That  was  con- 
clusive. They  were  there  to  watch  him,  but  why? 
Clearly  because  the  Court  desired  to  know  of  all  his 
movements.  The  consequences  of  his  refusal  to  the 
Comtesse  des  Forges  were  in  fact  beginning.  Andre 
smiled  grimly,  stretched  out  his  legs  and  examined  the 
precious  slip  of  paper.  At  once  his  heart  pounded  the 
more  fiercely.  The  scrap  had  no  writing  on  it  at  all; 
all  that  he  could  see  was  a  curious  symbol,  two  crossed 
daggers  and  the  figures  "  101  "  in  red  ink — no,  blood  ! 
There  was  no  mistaking  it — blood.  The  mysterious 
traitor's  sign,  pass,  or  comnterword.  He  set  his  teeth. 
Why,  oh,  why  had  he  allowed  that  girl  to  escape  him  ? 
An  hour  passed.  Nothing  happened,  and  Andre 
goaded  by  a  feverish  curiosity  which  he  could  not 
satisfy,  and  feeling  only  that  he  had  been  baffled  again, 
planned  how  to  leave.  Pausing,  to  be  sure  that  the  two 
servants  were  ready  as  before  to  follow  him,  he  flung 
himself  round  the  corner  into  the  darkness  and  up  the 
first  alley  and  down  the  next,  reckless  of  stabs  in  the 
back,  until  he  was  able  to  crouch  in  the  first  conven- 
ient doorway.  He  had  thrown  his  spies  off,  that  was 


238  No.  101 

something,  and  just  as  he  was  wondering  what  to  do 
next  a  cloaked  figure  brushed  past  him.  The  Chevalier 
de  St.  Amant,  as  he  lived!  He  grabbed  at  the  cloak  in 
vicious  rage.  The  Chevalier  at  least  should  not  escape 
him. 

"Don't  be  so  rude,  Vicomte,"  laughed  a  woman's 
voice.  "  I  won't  vanish  up  the  chimney." 

Andre",  in  sheer  astonishment,  staggered  against  the 
door,  glaring  all  the  time  into  the  darkness.  ' '  You  will 
be  wise  to  follow  me,"  she  continued,  "and  in  silence." 

In  two  minutes  the  pair  were  standing  in  a  small  and 
empty  back  room  of  the  tavern  Andre  had  just  left. 
The  woman  threw  back  her  hood,  revealing  the  trim 
figure  and  saucy  face  of  the  impudent  flower  girl,  who 
was  no  other  than  his  long-lost  acquaintance,  the 
crystal-gazer. 

"You  will  present,"  she  said  mockingly,  "  my  hum- 
ble duties  to  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour ' ' 

Andre"  had  recovered  his  bewilderment.  ' '  What  is 
the  meaning  of  that  ?  "  he  demanded,  brusquely,  thrust- 
ing the  slip  of  paper  into  her  hands. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  retorted  coolly,  and  then  tore 
the  slip  into  a  dozen  pieces,  ' '  and  I  do  not  care  to 
know." 

Andre  was  so  startled  by  the  studied  insolence  of  the 
act  that  for  a  few  minutes  he  could  neither  speak  nor 
move.  When  he  did,  it  was  to  put  his  back  to  the  door 
very  significantly. 

"  One  question,  Madame,"  he  demanded.    "  You  are 


The  Flower  Girl  239 

aware  that  George  Onslow  is  in  Paris,  that  he  spoke  to 
you,  gave  you  that  paper? " 

"  Certainly.  Mr.  Onslow  mistook  me  for  some  one 
else.  I  have  just  convinced  him  of  his  mistake."  She 
was  positively  smiling. 

"You  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  No,"  she  answered, 
"the  truth  told  by  women  is  never  believed,  least  of  all 
at  Versailles  by  men." 

Andre  ran  his  eye  over  her.  As  in  the  past,  so  now 
something  in  her  voice  and  figure  reminded  him  of 
some  one  else,  but  of  whom  he  could  not  recall. 
"  Madame,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  I  urge  you  to  tell  the 
truth.  You  were  never  in  such  danger  as  you  are 
now. ' ' 

"Perhaps  not.  But  I  am  not  in  such  peril  as  you 
are,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte." 

Instinctively  he  turned  sharply  round.  The  woman 
laughed  and  the  laugh  maddened  him,  for  they  were 
alone  and  the  door  had  been  locked  by  himself. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said  quietly,  "you  are  being  spied 
on.  To-morrow  the  ministers,  the  Comtesse  des 
Forges,  and  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  will  know  how 
the  Vicomte  de  Nerac,  who  gave  out  he  was  going  to 
visit  Madame  his  aged  mother,  has  spent  the  evening 
in  the  company  of  Mr.  George  Onslow  and  disrepu- 
table women.  I  feel  sure  the  Marquise  de  Beau  S6jour 
will  hear  it,  too,  with  additions." 

"Well,"  said  Andr6,  stonily. 


240  No,  101 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  also  is  known  to  frequent  the 
society  of  one  Yvonne.  Innocent  peasant  girls,  when 
put  on  the  rack,  are  sometimes  obliged  to  tell  lies,  poor 
things,  but  lies  useful  to  those  who  rack  them.  The 
Marquise  de  Beau " 

"  Hold  your  tongue." 

"No,  I  will  not.  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  is  also  the 
lover  of  Madame  de  Pompadour.  You  deny  it  ?  Then 
why  go  in  the  darkness  with  the  King's  private  key  to 
her  apartment  ?  The  noble  whose  arm  you  slit  will 
enjoy  taking  that  delightful  scandal  about  the  Captain 
of  the  Queen's  Guards  to  the  King,  and  the  King — 
mon  Dieu  !  the  King — "  she  laughed  bloodthirstily, 
nor  was  it  necessary  to  finish  the  sentence. 

Andre  wiped  the  sweat  off  his  brow.  The  woman 
came  close  to  him.  "Supposing,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  ' '  supposing  you  had  been  arrested  to-night  with 
that  slip  of  paper  in  your  pocket,  would  all  your  ser- 
vices, all  your  oaths,  your  nobility,  have  saved  you? 
Think,  my  friend,  think.  I  did  a  bold  thing,  perhaps, 
in  destroying  it,  but  it  was  in  your  interest,  Vicomte, 
not  mine." 

Andre  was  silent,  appalled  at  her  knowledge.  The 
tables  had  been  turned  on  him  with  a  vengeance,  and 
this  astonishing  woman  was  right,  which  was  hardest 
of  all. 

"You  would  know,"  she  proceeded,  divining  mar- 
vellously his  confused  thoughts,  "how  I  have  all  this 
information.  I  have  my  crystal,"  she  laughed,  "  but 


The  Flower  Girl  241 

I  also  hate  the  King  and  the  woman  who  rules  him. 
You  and  she  are  not  the  only  persons  at  Versailles  to 
whom  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  discover  the 
secret  of '  No.  101.'  Monsieur,  I  am  the  paid  agent  of 
the  foes  of  that  wanton,  the  King's  mistress,  and  of 
yourself." 

Unconsciously  Andrews  fingers  clutched  the  hilt  of 
his  sword. 

"  Why  do  I  tell  you  all  this?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice.  ' '  Does  that  confession  amuse  or  startle  you  ? 
Am  I  the  first  woman  who  would  sacrifice  herself  for 
the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  or  the  first  to  confess  her  love  ? 
No.  And  to  prove  I  speak  the  truth  I  will  reveal  to 
you  the  secret  of  'No.  101'  that  I  alone  have  discovered, 
but  on  one  condition" — she  paused  to  put  her  hands  on 
both  his  shoulders — "  that  you  will  promise  from  this 
moment  to  abandon  Mademoiselle  Denise,  who  is  not 
worthy  of  you,  and  to  love  me  alone." 

Dead  silence.  Andre  stood  hypnotised,  half  by  fear, 
half  by  the  witchery  of  her  womanhood. 

"I  have  beauty,  wealth,  power,"  she  whispered 
caressingly.  "  Yes,  I  am  as  fair  a  woman  as  Made- 
moiselle Denise;  I  can  make  you  a  greater  man  than 
Madame  de  Pompadour  can;  I  can  reveal  to  you  the 
secret  that  is  worth  the  ransom  of  the  King's  crown; 
and  I  love  you.  Say  yes,  Andre",  for  your  own  sake; 
you  will  never  regret  it." 

Andre  looked  into  her  blue  eyes,  so  resplendent 
against  the  cream  tint  of  her  skin,  and  at  her  magnifi- 

16 


242  No.  ioi 

cent  black  hair.  Passion  and  ambition  began  to  sap 
his  will.  Then  slowly  he  dragged  himself  from  his  in- 
toxicating dream  and  disengaged  her  hands. 

"No,"  he  said  gently  but  firmly,  "  I  do  not  love 
you.  I  cannot — I  cannot,  because,"  his  voice  rang  out, 
"  I  love  Denise." 

She  was  trembling,  he  thought,  with  rage,  but  there 
was  no  rage  in  her  eyes,  only  a  mysterious  pity  and 
pathos  as  of  a  woman  who  had  staked  all  on  one  throw 
and  lost,  yet  was  not  wholly  sorry. 

"  Ah!  well,"  she  said,  controlling  herself.  "  I  know 
now  that  you  will  never  discover  the  secret  of '  No. 
ioi ' — never  !  " 

"I  shall,"  he  answered,  with  unfaltering  confidence, 
"  I  shall  succeed  because  I  must." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  scorn.  "Open 
that  window,"  she  commanded,  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  "  before  you  leave  you  had  better  be  sure  the 
King's  police  are  not  waiting  for  you." 

With  the  key  of  the  door  in  his  pocket  Andre 
quietly  threw  the  shutters  open  and  peered  out. 

"  Well  ?  No  one  ?  "  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow.  "  I 
fear,  Vicomte,  I  cannot  wait  while  you  make  up  your 
mind  what  you  will  do  with  me.  You  will  hear  inter- 
esting news  at  Versailles  to-morrow.  Thank  you. 
Good-night ! " 

A  sharp  push,  the  vision  of  two  small  boots,  and  a 
flutter  of  short  skirts,  and  she  had  lightly  vaulted  into 
the  street.  When  Andre  recovered  his  balance  the 


The  Flower  Girl  243 

darkness  of  the  network  of  slums  had  swallowed  her. 
Tricked  and  baffled  again  by  a  woman,  and  with  these 
questions  above  all  crying  out  for  an  answer:  why  had 
he  mistaken  her  for  the  Chevalier  ?  Was  she  really  in 
love  with  him  ?  And  was  she  an  agent  of  the  plotters 
against  Madame  de  Pompadour? 


CHAPTER  XX 

AT  HOME  WITH   A   CIPHER 

MIDNIGHT  had  struck,  the  same  night,  more  than 
an  hour  ago;  the  black  and  squalid  Carrefour  of  St. 
Antoine  was  deserted;  the  houses  that  fringed  it  lay  in 
darkness,  yet  in  the  main  salon  of  one  of  them,  though 
they  could  not  be  discerned  by  a  passer-by,  the  lights 
still  blazed,  for  the  shutters  were  closed  and  bolted,  the 
thick  double  curtains  were  drawn  tight.  On  the  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  were  ample  traces  that  two 
persons  had  recently  supped,  and  supped  sumptuously. 
But  there  was  only  one  now  in  the  room,  a  woman 
copying  from  a  roll  of  manuscript,  and  absorbed  in  her 
task.  Save  for  the  monotonous  tick  of  the  clock,  and 
a  curious  muffled  murmur  which  trickled  through  a 
door  that  faced  the  main  entry,  the  silence  in  the 
strangely  brilliant  glare  of  the  numerous  candelabra 
was  oppressively  eery.  Presently  the  woman  threw 
down  her  pen  and  walked  with  a  quick  but  graceful 
step  in  front  of  one  of  the  many  long  mirrors  that  lined 
the  walls.  She  inspected  herself  with  a  charmingly  in- 
solent cynicism.  The  glass,  with  truthful  admiration, 

244 


At  Home  with  a  Cipher  245 

flashed  back  the  reflection  of  a  supple  and  exquisitely 
moulded  figure,  fair  hair,  bright  blue  eyes,  and  a  skin 
on  face,  neck,  and  shoulders  amazingly  delicate  in  its 
blended  tints  of  snow  and  rose.  A  young  woman  this, 
in  the  heyday  of  health  and  beauty,  noble  of  birth,  too, 
if  the  refinement  of  her  features,  and  the  ease  and  dig- 
nity of  her  carriage,  did  not  strangely  lie;  and  at  every 
movement  the  costly  jewels  in  her  hair  and  on  her 
breast,  in  her  artfully  simple  dress,  and  on  her  fingers, 
only  heightened  the  challenge  to  the  homage  claimed 
by  her  youth  and  beauty.  Very  soon,  however,  she 
ceased  to  find  pleasure  in  looking  at  herself.  A  soft 
pathos  swept  over  the  artificial  audacity  of  her  eyes  and 
lips.  She  sat  down,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  then 
stretched  her  arms  wearily  and  sighed  that  most  pa- 
thetic of  all  sighs,  a  sigh  from  a  young  woman's 
heart. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  up,  and,  after  listening  atten- 
tively, seized  a  hand  lamp  and  left  the  room.  When 
she  returned,  it  was  with  a  man,  who  flung  off  his  cloak 
and  stood  blinking  now  at  her,  now  at  the  brilliant 
lights. 

"  So  it  is  you  they  have  sent  ?  "  she  said  contemptu- 
ously; "  you  ! " 

"I  volunteered,"  George  Onslow  answered,  "be- 
cause I  wanted  to  come."  His  gaze  lingered  hungrily 
on  her.  "And,  by  God!  I  am  glad.  You,"  he  laughed 
wearily,  ' '  you  pretend  you  are  not  ? ' ' 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me  whom  your  accursed 


246  No.  101 

government  sends  ?  Any  man  is  better  than  a  woman, 
such  women,  at  least,  as  they  employed  last  time." 

His  eyes  roamed  from  her  jewels  to  the  supper 
table. 

"You  have  had  company  to-night,  Enchantress?" 
he  asked  in  a  flash  of  jealousy. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  over  her  shoulder,  "two  can 
make  very  good  company — sometimes.  But  here  is 
what  you  wanted.  Take  it  and  go." 

He  scanned  the  roll  of  manuscript  eagerly,  his  eyes 
sparkling. 

"  You  have  not  signed,"  he  remarked,  half  jestingly. 

The  woman  opened  a  penknife  and  pushed  back  the 
lace  which  fringed  her  splendid  arm  at  the  shoulder. 

"  Don't !  "  cried  Onslow,  in  genuine  pain.  "  I  can't 
bear " 

' '  Pooh  ! ' '  With  the  few  drops  of  blood  produced  by 
the  knife  she  made  a  symbol  with  her  pen  on  the  roll. 
1 '  From  as  near  my  heart  as  any  man  will  ever  get  any- 
thing," she  said,  replacing  the  lace  again.  "And  now 
m7  PaY»  please." 

Onslow  handed  her  a  small  bag  of  gold,  which  she 
locked  in  a  drawer.  "  You  will  drink,"  she  continued, 
pouring  out  two  glasses  of  wine.  ' '  Your  health,  skulk- 
ing spy,  and  damnation  to  I^ouis  XV.  and  all  his  crew 
of  my  fascinating  sex  !  " 

' '  To  your  trade  and  mine,  ma  mignonne,  to  yourself 
and — to  the  damnation  of  Louis  XV.  ! ' '  He  drained 
his  glass,  refilled  it,  and  drained  it  again.  "  You  are  a 


At  Home  with  a  Cipher  247 

witch,"  he  cried,  tapping  the  roll.  "  How  do  you  do 
it?" 

"  Come  this  way  and  I  will  show  you." 

She  opened  the  side  door,  revealing  a  small  room  lit 
by  a  single  candle.  On  the  bed  lay  a  man  bound  hand 
and  foot,  and  gagged.  One  boot  was  off,  showing 
whence  the  despatch  had  been  taken.  "  A  confidential 
messenger  of  the  King  whose  damnation  you  have  just 
drunk,"  she  explained,  with  careless  calm,  "and  like 
all  secret  agents  the  prey  of  his  passions.  He  went 
from  my  supper  table — or  rather  I  carried  him — like 
that.  There  will  be  a  pother  in  Versailles  to-morrow 
or  next  day.  It  is  not  only  at  the  palace,  you  see, 
that  a  beautiful  woman  can  ruin  a  kingdom." 

She  slammed  the  door  behind  her  and  admired  her- 
self in  the  mirror,  while  George  Onslow's  glowing  eyes 
gloated  on  the  superb  picture  that  the  mirror  and  she 
made  under  the  blazing  candles. 

"You  are  a  wonderful  woman,"  he  said  softly. 

"I  am  not  a  woman,  I  am  only  a  number." 

"As  I  think  I  told  you  when  I  saw  you  last  in 
London." 

She  wheeled  suddenly.  "And  because  you  were 
such  a  fool  as  to  show  you  had  discovered  it,"  she 
retorted,  "  I  could  send  you  to-night,  or  any  night,  to 
be  broken  on  the  executioner's  wheel.  Exactly." 

"  It  baffles  me  why  you  do  it,"  he  muttered,  ignoring 
the  remark. 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you.     For  three  hundred  and  sixty 


248  No.  101 

days  in  the  year  I  am  a  cipher,  a  sexless  vagrant,  un- 
known and  a  mystery;  but  for  five  days  maybe  I  wear 
my  jewels  and  am  a  woman  rejoicing  in  my  health  and 
my  beauty.  These  are  my  woman's  hours,  glorious 
hours.  That  is  one  reason  ;  the  other  is — revenge  ! ' ' 

"Ah  !  "     He  rubbed  his  hands  appreciatively. 

' '  And  you  ? ' '  she  asked,  with  a  faint  smile  of  the 
most  tempting  provocation. 

"For  love,"  he  spoke  with  a  hint  of  pain.  "  To  the 
world  you  are  a  mysterious  number,  but  to  me  you  are 
the  most  beautiful,  most  splendid  woman  on  earth,  with- 
out whose  love  I  cannot  live.  Had  you  not  by  chance 
crossed  my  path  I  would  have  dropped  this  dirty  felon's 
game,  but  I  go  on  and  shall  go  on,  taking  my  chance 
of  the  wheel,  the  halter,  or  the  footpad's  death  in  the 
gutter,  till  you  are  mine,  wholly  mine." 

Her  lip  curled.  "The  wine  is  getting  into  your 
head,"  she  said,  in  her  passionless  tones.  "In  your 
trade  and  mine  that  is  dangerous.  Remember  the  fate 
of  all  who,  knowing  what  you  know,  have  seen  my 
face ;  remember  your  friend,  Captain  Statham,  who 
recognised  the  Princess  in  the  hut  near  Foutenoy. 
Love  ?  I/ove  ?  You  are  a  strong,  vile  animal  of  a  man 
tempted  by  mere  beauty  of  body.  But  I  am  not  an 
animal,  nor  a  woman  as  women  are  in  Paris,  London, 
Vienna.  Love?  a  man's  animal  love  ?  Think  you  if 
that  was  what  I  could  feel  or  wanted  I  would  be  to-day 
a  thief  of  state  secrets,  a  cipher,  a  skulker  from  justice  ? 
No,  I  would  be  the  mistress  of  the  King  of  France  and 


At  Home  with  a  Cipher  249 

would  rule  a  great  kingdom.  And  you  have  the  inso- 
lence to  offer  me  the  caresses  of  a  felon,  a  spy,  a  traitor. 
You  are  mad." 

"  It  is  you  who  made  me  and  keep  me  mad,  thank 
God!" 

She  sat  down,  beckoning  him  to  sit  beside  her. 
"Now  listen,"  she  said  calmly.  "The  game  is  up. 
There  will  be  no  more  papers  for  a  long  time.  Why  ? 
Because  my  foes  are  on  my  track.  The  toils  are  being 
drawn  around  me.  My  sources  of  information  are  being 
discovered  and  stopped.  And — "  she  paused — "and 
a  man  worth  ten  of  you,  unless  I  am  very  careful, 

will " 

' '  The  Vicomte  de  Ne* rac  ?  "  he  gasped  out.  "  Curse 
him!" 

"Yes,  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac,  who  balked  you  at 
Fontenoy." 

"You  let  him  balk  us — you  did." 

"And  if  I  did  for  my  own  ends,  what  then  ?  " 

"You  love  him?    Answer!    Answerer " 

"  What  is  it  to  you  ?  He  is  worth  a  woman's  love. 
But,  my  good  friend,  he  does  not  love  me.  Give  me 
your  hand  !  "  she  suddenly  commanded,  soothing  him 
at  the  same  time  by  a  caressing  look.  Ah!  I  thought 
so.  There  is  death,  a  violent  death,  in  that  palm  of 
yours,  death  coming  soon.  And  yet,  my  friend,  you 
can  avert  it.  But  unless  you  take  my  advice  and  for- 
get me  from  this  night,  unless  you  cease  to  be  a  spy 
and  a  traitor,  before  long  you  will  have  to  reckon  with 


250  No.  101 

the  Vicomte  de  Nerac — it  is  written  there — and  then — " 
She  let  his  hand  drop  with  icy  indifference,  "  c'estfini 
pour  vous  / ' ' 

' '  A  fig  for  your  old  wives'  fables  !  I  have  sworn  you 
shall  be  mine  and  you  shall. ' ' 

"  Stand  back  !  "     She  sprang  up. 

"No!"  For  one  minute  he  faced  her  and  then, 
with  a  hunter's  cry  on  his  prey,  he  had  pinioned  her 
wrist,  and  in  that  besotted  grip  she  was  powerless, 
though  she  struggled  fiercely. 

"No,  ma  mignonne,  I,  too,  am  strong.  You  shall 
learn  you  are  only  a  weak  woman  after  all."  He  had 
whipped  the  dagger  from  its  concealment  by  her  heart, 
his  arm  was  about  her,  his  eyes  the  eyes  of  a  victorious 
maniac. 

"Kiss  me  at  your  will,"  she  murmured  faintly. 
"See,  mon  ami,  I  resist  no  longer.  Yes,  you,  too,  are 
a  man.  I  was  only  tempting  you.  I  am  not  a  num- 
ber, but  a  woman.  You  have  my  secret,  and  I  am 
yours  !  "  No  man  could  have  resisted  the  intoxicating 
self-surrender  in  her  eyes  and  voice,  least  of  all  George 
Onslow  in  the  grip  of  unholy  passion  long  thwarted. 

Suddenly  her  released  fingers  closed  like  a  vise  on 
his  throat.  In  vain  he  struggled,  for  he  was  choking. 
Her  great  natural  strength  was  duplicated  by  rage  and 
an  insulted  womanhood.  She  forced  him  on  to  the 
ground,  livid,  gasping  for  breath,  and  put  a  knee  on 
his  chest.  "  Mercy  !  "  he  faltered,  "  Mercy  !  " 

With  her  left  hand  she  tore  the  lace  from  her  breast, 


At  Home  with  a  Cipher  251 

and  gagged  him  inch  by  inch.  With  her  right  hand 
still  on  his  throat  she  produced  a  rope  from  her  pocket 
and  tied  with  practised  skill  his  hands  and  feet.  Then 
she  rose  and  calmly  rearranged  her  disordered  dress 
and  hair  and  quickly  searched  him  for  pistols  and 
dagger. 

"  Carrion!  scum  !  "  she  whispered,  bending  over  him, 
' '  you  deserve  to  die  like  the  English  dog  you  are. 
Miserable,  insolent  libertine  ! ' '  and  she  struck  him  on 
the  cheek.  "  No,  I  will  not  kill  you,  for  you  have  my 
work  to  do  and  you  shall  do  it.  But  a  weak  woman 
has  taught  you  a  lesson  and  your  hour  is  not  yet  come. 
Another  shall  soil  his  hands  or  his  sword  with  your 
rascallion  blood.  Go  ! ' ' 

She  dragged  him  down  the  passages,  loosened  the 
rope  on  his  ankles  till  he  could  just  hobble,  flung  his 
coat  about  him,  and  with  her  dagger  at  his  throat 
pushed  him  to  the  open  door,  where  she  propped  him 
against  the  wall  in  the  damp  darkness  of  the  court,  and 
the  silent  serenity  of  the  stars. 

"It  will  take  you,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "twenty 
minutes  to  bite  through  that  cord,  and  by  that  time  I 
shall  have  disappeared  for  ever  from  your  sight.  But 
remember  my  advice,  or  as  sure  as  you  stand  here,  be- 
fore long  my  secret  will  die  with  you."  She  drew  the 
lace  gag  from  his  mouth  and  stuffed  it  inside  his  collar. 
"  Cry  out  now  if  you  please,"  she  continued  contempt- 
uously, "  and  my  secret  will  die  with  you  in  two  days 
on  the  executioner's  wheel.  Oh,  keep  the  lace;  it  came 


252  No.  101 

from  a  woman's  heart,  and  on  the  scaffold  will  be  a 
pleasant  souvenir  of  a  night  of  love  with  a  cipher. 
Adieu!" 

The  outer  door  was  locked.  The  woman  who  was 
a  cipher  had  disappeared;  whence  and  whither,  who 
could  say  ? 

As  George  Onslow  stood  with  rage,  jealousy,  baffled 
passion,  humiliation,  surging  within  him,  he  was  star- 
tled by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  stranger. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  the  boyish  voice  of  the 
Chevalier  de  St.  Amant.  "  'T  is  a  friend."  He  mut- 
tered a  reassuring  password.  "  So  that  woman  has 
treated  you  as  she  treated  me  ?  "  In  a  trice  he  had  set 
the  helpless  spy  free. 

Onslow' s  answer  was  an  incoherent  growl  of  grati- 
tude, surprise,  and  relief. 

"Well,"  said  the  Chevalier,  "we  are  in  the  same 
boat.  You  will  hear  from  me  shortly,  I  promise  you. 
And  then  you  and  I  can  have  our  revenge  on  her  and 
the  Vicomte  de  Nerac.  Revenge,  my  friend,  revenge 
will  be  sweet.  Meanwhile  have  courage,  and  be  care- 
ful till  our  turn  comes  !  " 

And  then  he,  too,  glided  away  to  be  lost  in  the  night 
that  divined  and  protected  all  the  treachery  and  trea- 
son, all  the  dreams  of  love  and  hate,  of  passion  and 
ambition,  the  tears  and  laughter  and  prayers  that 
throbbed  then,  and  will  always  throb,  in  the  heart  of 
Paris. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  KING'S  COMMISSION 

ANDR£  was  not  the  only  person  at  Versailles  who, 
tortured  with  perplexity  and  fear,  must  now  choose  be- 
tween loyalty  to  a  cause  or  loyalty  to  the  dictates  of  the 
heart.  Poor  Denise,  whose  womanhood,  nobility,  and 
devotion  to  her  neglected  and  insulted  Queen  made 
her  so  bitter  a  foe  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  whose 
sensitive  self-respect  and  self-reverence,  whose  ideal  of 
purity  so  strange  in  the  world  of  Versailles,  whose  in- 
dignation at  Andre's  desertion  to  the  side  of  the  ambi- 
tious mistress,  had  combined  to  make  her  despise  and 
twice  reject  the  hero  of  her  girlhood;  yes,  poor  Denise 
had  at  last  been  driven  by  a  cruel  necessity  to  acknow- 
ledge to  herself  and  to  the  Chevalier  that  she  really 
loved  Andre",  and  that  she  could  not  sacrifice  him  even 
to  victory  over  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Ever  since 
that  hour  of  misery  she  had  bitterly  blamed  herself  for 
her  selfish  weakness.  She  had  not  only  been  untrue  to 
her  own  cause,  but  perhaps  had  ensured  its  defeat — and 
for  what  ?  Because  she  loved,  despite  all,  one  who  did 
not  love  her.  And  unless  she  made  atonement  for  this 

253 


254  o.  101 

folly  and  sin  she  must  forfeit  her  own  self-respect  for 
ever  and  be  punished  as  well.  Denise,  therefore, 
goaded  by  remorse,  by  a  dim  hope  of  saving  Andre"  at 
the  last  hour,  had  steeled  herself  to  conquer  her  pride 
and  her  modesty  and  to  speak  to  Andre  himself. 

He,  too,  oppressed  with  misgivings  and  fears,  had 
returned  early  in  the  morning  to  Versailles,  and  when 
he  found  himself  alone  in  the  antechamber  with  Denise, 
pale  and  resolute,  instinct  warned  him  as  it  warned  her 
that  both  their  lives  might  now  turn  on  silence  or 
speech. 

"  Will  you  answer  a  question  ?  "  she  began  with  ner- 
vous directness. 

He  bowed  with  a  singularly  poor  attempt  at  resolute 
indifference. 

"Why,"  she  demanded  in  a  low  voice,  "why  did 
you  say  you  were  going  to  Ne"rac  when  you  really 
meant  to  visit  a  low  cabaret  in  Paris  ? ' ' 

Andre  had  no  answer  ready,  for  it  was  not  the  ques- 
tion he  had  been  expecting  from  Denise. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  after  a  pitiful  pause,  "that  you  are 
well  informed,  Mademoiselle." 

Denise  looked  round  the  room  as  if  to  make  sure 
they  were  not  being  spied  on.  Then  she  walked  to- 
wards him,  her  trembling  fingers  revealing  her  emotion. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why  I  ask,"  she  said.  "  This  morn- 
ing, at  three  o'clock,  in  the  gutter  outside  the  cabaret — 
where  you  were  seen  at  midnight — one  of  the  King's 
messengers  was  discovered  by  the  police,  gagged  and 


The  King's  Commission  255 

bound,  and  his  despatches  gone — stolen,  of  course,  by 
the  traitor  who  has  done  this  felon's  work  before." 

' '  Good  God  ! ' '  The  horror  in  his  face  was  unmistak- 
able, but  was  it  due  to  guilty  knowledge  or  innocent 
surprise  ?  The  crystal- gazer's  last  words,  "  There  will 
be  news  in  the  morning  for  you  at  Versailles,"  were 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  now  he  stared  dully  and  con- 
fused at  the  girl's  pale  face. 

"You  do  not  wish  to  tell  me,"  Denise  continued, 
"  why  you  went  to  that  cabaret? " 

With  the  memory  of  the  night  still  painfully  vivid, 
aware  how  his  path  was  beset  by  pitfalls,  Andre  was 
trying  to  decide  whether  Denise  was  asking  as  the 
agent  of  his  implacable  foes  or  for  herself  alone. 

"  You,"  she  began  again,  "  are  the  Captain  of  the 
Queen's  Guards;  you  visit  by  stealth  at  an  inn  a  wench 
called  Yvonne,  you  refused  to  present  our  petition  to 
the  King,  you  visit  a  cabaret  frequented  by  a  foreigner 
suspected  of  being  an  English  spy,  under  whose  walls 
foul  treason  is  committed,  and  you  professed  to  have 
gone  to  Nerac  " — she  paused,  and  looked  at  him  wist- 
fully. "  Why  do  you  do  these  things  ?  " 

"  To  discover  the  traitor;  that  is  my  reason,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  At  the  request  of  His  Majesty  ?  "  she  asked  swiftly 
and  significantly. 

Should  he  lie  to  Denise?  Andre's  troubled  eyes 
passionately  sought  her  face. 

' '  I  can  say  no  more, ' '  he  replied  slowly,  and  Denise, 


256  No.  101 

though  she  knew  that  he  had  admitted  her  accusation, 
was  glad  he  had  not  told  her  a  falsehood. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  in  extreme  danger?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it."     He  spoke  with  great  gravity. 

"  I  have  been  unjust  to  you,"  she  said  quickly;  "  un- 
just and  unkind.  I  am  more  than  grateful  for  your 
generosity  and  honour  in  saving  me  by  that  duel.  I 
am  ready  now  to  believe  your  word  just  because  it  is 
yours.  They  tell  me  you  are  the  lover  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour  and  at  heart  a  traitor,  but  it  is  a  lie — a  lie  !  " 

"  Ah!  " — it  was  a  true  lover's  cry  of  joy — "  a  lie, 
Denise!" 

"  Yes,  a  lie.  I  say  so  to  you  because  I  have  said  it 
to  them.  Andre",  will  you  for  your  own  sake — I  cannot 
and  will  not  ask  for  mine — will  you  not  refuse  now  and 
henceforth  to  be  the  servant  and  ally  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour  ?  Will  you  not  help  me  instead  in  the  cause 
which  is  the  cause  of  your  nobility  and  mine — of  hon- 
esty and  honour  ?  ' ' 

"  I  could  wish,"  he  answered  earnestly,  "  for  your 
sake,  Denise,  that  you  would  refuse  to  have  any  part 
in  this  squalid  struggle  for  power.  Believe  me,  it  is  no 
task  for  a  woman  such  as  we — I — would  have  you  be." 

"  Do  not  I  know  it  ?  "  she  answered  wearily.  "  To 
the  woman  I  would  be  it  is  hateful.  It  soils — it  soils," 
she  cried  in  a  low  voice  of  anguish.  "  But  take  my 
place,  Andr6,  and  I  promise  you  I  will  leave  Versailles 
for  Beau  Sejour  till" — she  looked  up  timidly,  unable 


The  King's  Commission  257 

to  check  the  tender  radiance  in  her  appealing  eyes — 
"till  you  come  to  tell  me  you  are  victorious  and  she  has 
gone  for  ever." 

Andre  had  taken  her  outstretched  hands.  Her  words 
were  like  wine  to  a  fainting  man.  Denise  loved  him — 
Denise  loved  him!  Last  night  with  another  woman's 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  a  woman  promising  him  love, 
success,  glory,  the  great  secret  whose  fascination  was 
so  irresistible,  he  had  refused  to  succumb  to  temptation, 
and  Denise' s  look  even  more  than  her  words  was  now 
his  reward.  He  had  only  to  promise  and  she  would  be 
in  his  arms  for  ever.  And  so  for  a  few  blissful  moments 
of  oblivion  to  the  perils  that  beset  them  both  he  stood 
with  her  dear  hands  in  his,  her  face  close  to  his,  su- 
premely happy,  as  she  was. 

Suddenly  they  both  stepped  back.  Some  one  had 
stealthily  entered — only  a  lackey  peeping  cautiously, 
but  a  lackey,  they  both  recognised  at  once,  of  Madame 
de  Pompadour. 

"Whom  do  you  seek?  "  Denise  demanded  haughtily. 

The  man  had  obviously  expected  to  find  Andr6 
alone.  He  now  tried  to  sidle  away. 

"If,"  said  the  Marquise  de  Beau  S6jour,  "  you  have 
a  message  for  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  N6rac,  give  it 
to  him." 

The  man,  thus  sternly  commanded,  reluctantly 
handed  Andre"  a  small  note  and  fled. 

"  Read  it,  I  beg,"  Denise  urged,  her  tone  uncon- 
sciously cold  and  severe. 
17 


258  No.  101 

It  was  sealed  with  the  crest  of  the  Marquise  de  Pom- 
padour, and  Andre  read  these  words : 

"  I  must  see  you  at  once. — A.  DE  P." 

The  crumpled  note  fell  from  his  fingers.  Ah! 
Sooner  or  later  he  had  known  even  in  his  great  bliss 
that  he  must  answer  Denise's  appeal,  but  this  message 
made  a  decision  imperative. 

"  Will  you  save  me  as  I  asked  you?  "  Denise  said, 
and  once  again  she  came  close  to  him. 

"  And  if  I  cannot  promise  to  take  your  place?  "  he 
questioned  to  gain  time. 

"  Then  I  must  go  on  alone — alone,"  she  answered, 
"  and  God  knows  what  I  may  do." 

Ambition,  loyalty,  love,  his  pledged  oath  to  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  fear,  remorse,  and  pain  struggled 
within  him. 

"I  will  promise  anything,  anything  but  that,"  he 
cried  in  despair. 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  that  can  help,"  she  said  very 
quietly;  "  but  it  is  well  I  should  know  the  truth.  I 
thank  you  for  that."  Tears  were  in  her  voice.  "  Do 
not  think  the  worse  of  me  if — ' '  she  stopped.  Words 
failed  her.  Fate  and  the  mistakes  of  the  past  of  each 
were  too  strong  for  him  and  for  her. 

And  then,  Andre,  unable  to  endure  the  misery 
longer,  without  a  syllable  of  explanation  or  justifica- 
tion, left  her. 

Denise's  eye  fell  on  the  note  from  the  woman  who  she 


The  King's  Commission  259 

felt  had  ruined  her  life  and  his.  For  one  minute  she 
held  it  in  her  fingers.  Her  friends  would  give  much 
for  this  damning  evidence  of  his  guilt.  If  she  desired 
revenge,  here  was  the  chance ;  and  she  was,  alas ! 
racked  by  the  jealousy  and  curiosity  of  a  woman  who 
loved  and  had  been  rejected;  but  it  was  only  for  a 
moment  that  she  wavered,  then  with  a  proud  sadness 
tore  the  note  into  fragments  and  threw  them  on  the  fire. 
Not  till  the  last  had  been  burnt  did  she  take  refuge  in 
the  hopeless  loneliness  of  her  own  room. 

"  Mon  Dzeu/"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Pompadour, 
as  Andr6  stepped  from  behind  the  curtains  of  the  secret 
door,  "Mon  Dieu  !  my  friend,  I  am  not  the  devil,  that 
you  should  look  at  me  like  that." 

"  Madame,"  Andre"  replied,  "  I  am  here  to  receive 
your  commands." 

A  jest,  a  taunt,  a  direct  question,  hovered  on  the 
lady's  lips.  But  after  another  searching  look,  instead 
she  held  out  a  hand  of  swift  and  strong  sympathy. 

"Courage,  Vicomte,"  she  said  softly,  "do  not  de- 
spair. I  am  not  beaten  yet,  nor  are  you.  No  woman 
can  forget  a  man's  loyalty,  certainly  not  I." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  was  a  selfish  and  ambitious 
woman,  yet  to  a  few  such  nature  has  granted  the  mys- 
terious power  of  expressing  in  word  and  look  what  they 
do  not  really  feel.  Then,  as  always  in  her  unique 
career,  it  proved  the  most  potent  of  her  many 
gifts. 


260  No.  101 

"I  thank  you,  Marquise,"  Andre  replied,  deeply 
touched. 

"  You  have  heard  the  news,"  she  said,  wisely  return- 
ing to  business.  "Yes?  Could  anything  be  worse? 
But  thank  Heaven  the  messenger  was  carrying  only 
public  despatches.  Had  it  been  one  of  the  King's 
secrets  you  and  I  would  not  be  talking  here." 

"And  His  Majesty?" 

"  Is  one  moment  furiously  angry,  at  another  plunged 
in  the  deepest  dejection,  at  another  jesting.  This  ac- 
cursed treachery  appalls  him.  No  wonder.  But,  as  the 
business  of  last  night  affects  the  ministers  more  than 
himself,  he  is  angry  with  them  alone.  Cursed  dullards, 
he  called  them  in  this  very  room,  infamous  bunglers. 
I  think,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  His  Majesty  will  pres- 
ently see  it  is  his  interest  to  give  some  of  them  change 
of  air  and  occupation.  Who  knows,  the  Vicomte  de 
Nerac  may  be  Minister  for  War  yet." 

Andre  laughed  grimly.  That  would  be  a  triumphant 
retort  indeed  to  the  Court  that  hoped  to  prove  him  a 
traitor  and  a  libertine. 

Madame  de  Pompadour  ceased  to  smile.  Fear  and 
anxiety  made  her  voice  and  eyes  grave.  "  '  No.  101,'  " 
she  said,  "  has  given  the  King  occasion  to  call  his  min- 
isters dullards  and  bunglers.  If  to-morrow,  thanks  to 
'  No.  101,'  the  King  should  have  reason  to  call  me  that 
and  worse,  you  and  I  are  ruined.  You  follow  me  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  Madame." 

" 'Eh  bien!  it  is  necessary  for  His  Majesty  tocommu- 


The  King's  Commission  261 

nicate  with  the  Jacobites.  That,  unhappily,  is  not  my 
affair.  His  Majesty  wills  it  so,  and  I,  who  alone  know 
this,  must  obey.  This  is  the  despatch." 

Andre  took  the  sheet  of  paper.  "  It  is  in  your  hand- 
writing, Madame!"  he  exclaimed,  in  sharp  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  it  at  the  King's  dictation  this  morning. 
Have  you  forgotten  I,  alone,  am  his  confidential  sec- 
retary now?  "  She  quietly  folded  the  paper,  sealed  it 
with  her  own  private  seal,  and  wrote  a  direction  on  the 
cover. 

"You  wish  me  to  be  the  bearer?"  Andre"  asked 
quickly. 

"Three  persons  alone,"  she  replied  quietly,  "know 
of  this  despatch  and  its  contents — the  King,  you,  and 
I.  The  King  cannot  deliver  it.  It  must,  therefore,  be 
you  or  I.  With  '  No.  101  '  out  there  or  here  in  the  pal- 
ace we  cannot  trust  any  messenger.  That  is  the  price 
you  and  I  have  to  pay  for  the  power  we  have 
won." 

"  I  will  take  it,"  Andr6  said  at  once. 

"Reflect,  my  friend,"  she  answered.  " If  that  de- 
spatch is  found  on  your  person,  or  stolen,  it  reveals  an 
intrigue  with  the  Jacobites  in  defiance  of  the  King's 
public  promise  and  the  policy  of  his  ministers,  and  you 
will  go  to  the  Bastile  as  a  traitor.  It  is  in  my  hand- 
writing, sealed  with  my  seal,  and  the  King  will  disavow 
us  both;  therefore,  I  shall  follow  you  to  prison  and 
death.  This  is  a  more  dangerous  errand  than  my 


262  No.  ioi 

commission  at  Fontenoy.  You  can  risk  it  and  will, 
but  is  it  fair?" 

"  Madame,  if  you  were  not  involved,  I  should  wel- 
come the  Bastile  and  the  scaffold,"  he  replied. 

She  flashed  a  swift  look,  piercing  to  the  marrow,  and 
she  read  how  the  iron  of  some  unknown  fate  had  en- 
tered into  his  soul;  but  with  marvellous  self-restraint 
she  suppressed  her  curiosity. 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  said;  "  no,  I  cannot  thank  you, 
but  some  day  I  will." 

It  is  not  given  to  many  men  to  see  in  such  a  woman's 
eyes  what  Andre  saw  then.  He  wrenched  himself 
into  asking  an  obvious  question. 

"The  agent  of  the  Jacobites  will  be  at  midnight  at 
'The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold,'  "  she  answered. 
"  Do  not  be  surprised;  it  is  not  I  who  have  chosen  that 
place;  it  is  the  King,  and  we  must  obey.  Paris  is  too 
far  off;  the  road  and  the  city  are  as  we  know  only  too 
full  of  dangers.  Remember  that  before  you  deliver  the 
despatch  the  agent  will  give  you  the  password,  '  Discret 
etficfele?  and  show  you  a  seal  like  this.  Yes,  keep  it." 
She  handed  him  an  impression  of  the  private  royal  seal. 
' '  And  now  I  will  sew  the  paper  into  your  inside  pocket; 
it  is  the  safest  way  I  can  think  of." 

For  a  couple  of  minutes  she  stitched  in  the  most 
businesslike  way,  but  neither  he  nor  she  could  make 
the  operation  other  than  it  was. 

What  a  beautful  woman!  Andr£  was  only  human, 
indeed  more  susceptible  than  most  to  physical  charm. 


The  King's  Commission  263 

The  flutter  of  her  eyelids,  the  lights  that  unconsciously 
came  and  went  in  her  eyes,  the  dimple  in  the  cheek, 
the  rounded  curve  of  neck,  shoulder,  and  arm— veri- 
tably a  morceau  de  rot. 

;'They  say,"  she  whispered,  with  a  roguish  laugh, 
"that  poor  fool  of  a  messenger  was  cajoled  off  his 
errand  by  a  petticoat.  Women,  you  know,  are  often 
surprised  at  the  extraordinary  weakness  of  even  strong 
men.  I  wonder  if  any  woman  could  make  you, 
Vicomte,  betray  yourself.  Perhaps?" 

"  I  hope  not."     Andre"  found  it  wiser  to  jest  too. 

"  Mafoi!  I  should  like  to  try." 

Andre  kissed  her  fingers  with  the  unconscious  grace 
that  was  vainly  imitated  by  all  the  young  courtiers  of 
Versailles.  ' '  I  could  only  succumb  to  your  equal,  Mar- 
quise," he  said,  "but  such  a  woman  does  not  exist. 
Therefore  I  shall  succeed." 

"  You  must ;  you  must." 

"  Madame,  the  paper  will  be  delivered  safely  or  I 
shall  never  return." 

The  thoughts  of  both  had  soared  away  in  the  sudden 
silence,  and  across  the  unconquerable  dreams  of  ambi- 
tion and  love  there  fell  the  sinister,  blood-stained  mys- 
tery of  the  unknown  traitor  and  darkened  the  room. 

"God  keep  you,  my  friend,"  Madame  murmured. 
"  God  keep  you  safe  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  SECRET  SERVICE 

THE  clock  in  Andre's  room  struck  eleven.  Andr6 
pulled  the  curtains  back  and  surveyed  the  night. 
Serene,  flawlessly  serene,  as  an  October  night  at  Ver- 
sailles can  be.  Satisfied  that  his  pistols  were  properly 
primed,  that  the  precious  despatch  was  still  in  his 
pocket,  he  blew  out  the  lights  and  then  by  a  rope  ladder 
swung  himself  out  of  the  window.  His  experience  at 
' '  The  Gallows  and  the  Three  Crows ' '  had  warned  him 
that  for  his  foes  to  discover  the  King's  commission  was 
for  Madame  de  Pompadour  and  himself  ruin,  death, 
and  dishonour.  And  he  was  determined  the  Court 
should  not  so  much  as  know  he  had  left  the  palace. 
So  at  midday  he  had  given  out  that  he  was  ill,  had  even 
sent  for  a  physician,  and  then  had  quietly  slept  till  the 
hour  had  come.  And  now  that  he  had  successfully 
given  them  the  slip  the  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guards 
laughed  as  a  truant  schoolboy  might  have  done.  A  few 
lights  still  twinkled  into  the  October  air,  some  from  be- 
hind shutters,  others  through  the  open  glass.  Andr£ 
paused  to  survey  the  majestic  front  of  the  palace  as  it 

264 


On  Secret  Service  265 

faces  the  broad  terrace  that  commands  the  gardens, 
that  terrace  where  to-day  the  bare-legged  French  child- 
ren scamper  and  the  chattering  tourists  stroll— those 
gardens  where,  could  he  have  known  it,  was  to  be 
played  out  the  tragi-comedy  of  The  Diamond  Necklace 
and  the  downfall  of  the  descendants  of  Le  Roi  Soleil. 
And  he  was  asking  himself,  would  he  ever  see  Ver- 
sailles again  ? 

Up  there  to  the  right  was  the  window  of  Denise's 
room.  If  only  he  could  have  said  two  words  of  farewell 
before  he  rode  out  to  battle  with  the  unknown!  Hush! 
the  shutters  were  being  fretfully  thrown  back.  Yes, 
that  figure  in  white  was  Denise  looking  out,  as  so  many 
in  their  sorrow  or  passion  have  looked  out,  to  the  pas- 
sionless stars  for  an  answer,  and  in  vain.  His  blood 
throbbed  feverishly,  until  Denise,  ignorant  that  in  the 
darkness  below  her  a  heart  as  cruelly  torn  as  her  own 
was  beating  wistfully,  wearily  closed  the  shutters,  and 
went  back  to  a  sleepless  bed. 

Andre  stole  away  across  the  gardens  to  seek  the  road 
yonder  where  a  trusted  servant  from  Paris  would  be 
waiting  with  his  best  horse. 

"She  is  not  a  peasant,"  he  muttered,  showing 
whither  his  thoughts  were  travelling.  "  Well,  well!  " 

"  If  I  am  not  at  the  palace  by  nine  o'clock,  Jean,"  he 
said  as  he  mounted,  "  come  for  my  orders  to  the  inn 
called  'The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold.'"  And 
Jean  nodded  knowingly. 

Orders!     Andre  smiled  grimly.     Dead  men  can  give 


266  No.  101 

110  orders,  not  even  for  their  own  burial,  nor  can  they 
take  all  their  secrets  with  them;  more  was  the  pity. 

When  the  servant  had  disappeared  Andre  bound  the 
mare's  hoofs  with  felt,  and  she  whinnied  affectionately, 
as  if  she  understood.  She  had  only  twice  been  so 
treated,  once  the  night  before  Fontenoy  and  now,  for 
she  was  the  English  blood  mare  which  had  crushed 
into  pulp  the  face  of  that  miserable  dead  woman  in  the 
charcoal-burner's  wood  and  had  saved  her  master's  life 
from  "No.  101"  and  George  Onslow.  Andre  stroked 
her  neck  and  whispered  into  her  ear.  To-night  she 
might  have  to  save  his  honour  as  well  as  his  life. 

Once  in  the  main  road  Andre  drew  rein  in  the 
shadow  of  a  tree  on  the  outskirts  of  the  forest  and  list- 
ened attentively.  To  the  right  ran  the  track  for  farm 
carts  that  led  directly  to  the  inn,  but  he  decided  not  to 
take  that.  If  by  any  chance  he  had  been  followed  or 
an  ambush  was  laid  his  foes  would  certainly  choose 
that  track,  his  natural  route.  He  therefore  rode  past 
it,  again  halted  to  listen,  and  then  plunged  fearlessly 
under  the  trees,  picking  his  way  along  a  wood-cutter's 
disused  path. 

Already,  through  the  tangle  of  boughs,  he  could 
make  out  the  blurred  shape  of  the  inn  ahead,  when  a 
faint  hiss  brought  his  sword  from  the  scabbard.  No, 
that  was  a  low  whistle  there  on  the  right.  That  bush, 
too,  just  in  front  was  stirring  suspiciously;  by  St. 
Denys!  the  crown  of  a  man's  hat  ?  A  howl  of  surprise 
and  pain  rent  the  air.  Andre  had  driven  in  his  spurs; 


On  Secret  Service  267 

the  maddened  mare  had  leaped  on  to  the  bush  and  the 
hat  with  the  man's  head  under  it  was  cut  through  with 
one  pitiless  stroke  of  the  sword.  In  went  the  spurs 
again;  for  he  saw  now  there  were  three  others  running 
up  from  the  main  track  which  he  had  refused  to  follow. 
The  flash  of  a  pistol:  the  bullet  went  through  his  cloak, 
but  the  man  who  fired  it  took  Andre's  sword  point  in 
his  throat  and  dropped,  gurgling.  The  remaining  two 
stood  their  ground,  and  struck  at  him  with  their 
swords.  One  of  them,  with  a  cry  "Seigneur  J6su  !" 
lurched  forward,  run  through  the  breast.  But  the  other 
had  stabbed  the  mare  from  behind.  She  plunged  and 
fell  heavily.  Andre  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  his  left  arm; 
he,  too,  was  stabbed !  He  had  a  vision  of  himself  being 
tossed  through  the  air,  his  head  struck  a  tree  trunk, 
and 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  he  was  lying  on 
the  ground  and  all  was  still.  In  an  agony  of  bewil- 
dered fear  he  tore  his  coat  open  and  felt  for  the  de- 
spatch. Impossible!  Yes,  it  was  still  there.  A  red 
mist  danced  in  his  eyes,  his  left  arm  throbbed  with 
pain,  but  he  lay  half  sobbing  with  a  delirious  joy. 
The  despatch  was  still  there!  Death  and  dishonour 
had  not  the  mastery  of  him  yet. 

"You  are  hurt,  Monseigneur  ?  " 

Yvonne,  in  her  tattered  gown  and  dishevelled  hair, 
with  a  lantern  in  her  hand,  was  kneeling  beside  him. 
Andre  staggered  to  his  feet;  he  scarcely  knew  whether 
he  was  hurt  or  not.  He  gazed  round,  trying  to  recollect, 


268  No.  101 

as  the  flickering  light  showed  him  four  men's  bodies 
lying  this  way  and  that  near  him.  Dead,  all  of  them. 
And  his  horse — no,  that  was  alive;  she  whinnied  as  he 
tottered  up  to  her. 

"Take  it  to  the  stable,"  he  muttered,  "take  the 
mare,  Yvonne.  It  is  not  the  first  time  she  has  saved 
my  life." 

Yvonne  in  silence  led  the  bleeding  beast  away.  The 
girl  who  loved  a  cow  could  also  understand  why  a  sol- 
dier could  love  his  horse. 

Andre  now  seized  the  lantern  and  examined  the  dead 
men.  Ha!  two  of  them  he  did  not  know,  but  two  were 
the  spies  of  "  The  Gallows  and  the  Three  Crows,"  the 
servants  of  the  Duke  de  Pontchartrain  and  the  Comte 
de  Mont  Rouge.  He  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  trunk, 
faint  and  sick.  But  the  shock  braced  his  dazed  mind 
and  he  tugged  out  his  watch.  Ten  minutes  to  twelve. 
Ten  minutes!  He  could  still  be  in  time.  His  arm  in- 
deed was  dripping  with  blood,  but  it  was  a  mere  flesh 
wound,  which  he  promptly  bound  up  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  by  this  time  Yvonne  had  returned. 

"  Tell  me  what  happened,"  he  commanded. 

"I  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen,"  she  said  quietly, 
"  when  I  heard  a  cry — a  terrible  cry.  I  seized  a  bludg- 
eon and  a  lantern  and  rushed  out.  Mon  Dieu  !  Mon- 
seigneur,  it  was  horrible;  you  were  fighting  and  falling. 
I  struck  as  hard  as  I  could,  and  then  all  was  still. 
Monseigneur,  I  can  see  now,  killed  three  of  them,  but 
the  fourth  I  think  I  killed.  See— there  !  " 


£J 

ll 


On  Secret  Service  269 

Her  bludgeon  was  lying  beside  one  of  the  dead  men, 
whose  head  it  had  battered  in.  Yvonne  began  to  cry  at 
the  sight. 

"  Will  they  hang  me,  Monseigneur  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Hang  you!  Good  heavens!  You  have  saved  my 
life,  my  honour.  They  will  not  hang  you  unless  they 
hang  me,  and  they  will  not  do  that.  Come,  Yvonne, 
we  must  show  these  canaille  where  the  superintendent 
of  the  police  can  see  them  to-morrow." 

They  carried  the  four  bodies  to  one  of  the  outhouses, 
and  not  till  then  did  Andre"  enter  the  inn  parlour  to 
wait  for  the  agent  of  the  Jacobites;  but  no  agent  arrived, 
and,  after  drinking  some  wine  which  Yvonne  found  for 
him  and  telling  her  to  summon  him  if  required,  Andre" 
dismissed  her,  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  fire,  and  began 
to  ponder  on  the  night's  work;  but  his  mind  refused  to 
think.  A  curious  numbness  as  if  produced  by  a  drug 
steadily  overpowered  him,  and  after  wrestling  with 
himself  in  vain  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

He  had  been  lying  in  the  chair  perhaps  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  when  the  door  softly  opened.  Yvonne  with  a 
finger  to  her  lips,  holding  her  petticoats  off  the  floor, 
stole  in,  and  behind  her  a  stranger,  shading  the  light 
he  carried  with  his  hand,  stepped  stealthily  on  tiptoe. 

In  silence  they  both  inspected  the  sleeping  Andre". 
Then  Yvonne  very  cautiously  inserted  her  hand  inside 
the  sleeper's  coat  and  probed  as  it  were  gently.  The 
pair  inspected  the  despatch  closely,  smiling  when  they 
observed  the  handwriting  on  the  cover.  Then  with 


270  No.  101 

the  same  practised  sureness  of  touch,  they  rebuttoned 
the  coat,  and  withdrew  as  noiselessly  as  they  had  en- 
tered; but  as  they  reached  the  threshold  a  little  tongue 
of  flame  from  one  of  the  logs  on  the  fire  suddenly  re- 
vealed the  face  of  Yvonne's  companion  to  be  that  of 
the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant. 

Outside  the  door,  the  girl  hung  her  lantern  quietly 
on  the  wall  in  the  passage. 

"Why  has  n't  Francois  come?"  she  asked,  in  an 
anxious  whisper. 

"  Francois  will  never  come,"  the  Chevalier  replied, 
very  curtly. 

"  Do  you  " — she  pushed  back  her  matted  hair  with 
a  gesture  of  horror — "  do  you " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  The  English  have  been  on  Francois's 
track  for  some  time.  He  was  last  seen,  I  learn,  loiter- 
ing about  the  Carrefour  de  St.  Antoine.  Poor  fool, 
why  did  he  go  there,  of  all  places  ?  He  has  disappeared 
and " 

"  George  Onslow  ?  "  she  interrupted  with  a  flash  of 
anger. 

"  I  fear  so.  Onslow  is  mad  with  despair  and  wrath. 
He  had  discovered  Francois's  trade  and  his  Jacobite 
employers;  and  the  English  Government  pays  hand- 
somely for  Jacobite  secrets.  Ouslow,  too,  was  con- 
vinced he  would  get  no  more  papers  as  he  had  got 
them  before,  and  so ' ' 

"  Yes,  yes."  Then  she  added,  "And  he  desired  re- 
venge on  a  woman." 


On  Secret  Service  271 

The  Chevalier  nodded  quietly.  "  If  he  had  secured 
from  Francois  that  paper  which  De  Nerac  is  carrying, 
revenge  was  in  his  hands.  But  the  madman  has  struck 
too  soon;  it  is  just  as  well  for  all  of  us."  He  looked 
up  and  down  the  dimly  lit  passage.  "Some  day,"  he 
said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  that  was  cruelly  tragic, 
"  Francois's  fate  will  be  mine." 

The  girl  flung  out  a  hand  of  passionate  protest.  Her 
voice  choked. 

"  I  feel  it  for  certain,"  the  Chevalier  continued,  "  it 
is  fate,  the  fate  of  our — "  He  checked  himself 
sharply.  "  Oh,  I  shall  not  resent  my  turn  when  it 
comes;  I  have  no  desire  to  live  now." 

"  No."  She,  too,  stretched  arms  of  impotent  appeal 
against  the  grip  of  a  pitiless  destiny.  ' '  No,  there  is 
nothing  to  live  for,  now." 

The  Chevalier  looked  into  her  eyes  with  the  earnest 
scrutiny  of  deep  affection.  "  So  your  question,  too,  has 
been  answered  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Only  as  I  expected.     Could  it  be  otherwise  ?  " 

"  All  for  De  Nerac,"  he  commented  aloud  to  himself; 
"  all  for  De  N6rac— - love,  success,  glory,  honour,  and, 
as  if  that  were  not  enough,  he  and  that  wanton  will 
frustrate  the  revenge  and  punishment 

' '  Yes,  he  will  do  that.     It  is  the  destiny  of  France. ' ' 

The  thought  imposed  silence  on  both.  Andrews 
measured  breathing  could  be  heard  dying  away  in 
peaceful  innocence  in  the  dim  passage. 

"  But  this  attack  ?  "  Yvonne  demanded  suddenly. 


272  No.  101 

"  The  ministers  and  the  Court,  of  course,"  was  the 
quick  reply.  "  Some  one  has  warned  them  of  his  " — 
he  nodded  towards  the  parlour — "  his  errand.  The 
some  one  can  only  be  Onslow,  the  miserable  traitor, 
and  it  explains  Francois's  disappearance,  too.  The 
despatch  can  wait.  But  Onslow' s  game  must  be 
watched  or ' ' 

"And  checkmated,"  she  interrupted  decisively. 
"  Ah!  I  see  it  now — I  see  it  all  now." 

They  fell  to  talking  earnestly. 

Three  hours  later  Andre  had  returned  to  his  room  in 
the  palace  as  he  had  left  it — by  his  rope  ladder.  He 
had  an  interesting  story  to  add  to  the  morning  choco- 
late of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and  he  was  able  to  give 
back  intact  a  despatch  which  he  had  been  unable  to 
deliver. 

And  the  next  event  was  at  ten  o'clock,  when  the 
Duke  of  Pontchartrain  was  chatting  with  the  morning 
crowd  in  the  CEil  de  Bceuf.  Sharp  exclamations,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dead  silence,  greeted  the  entry  of  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Queen's  Guards,  whose  left  arm,  all  could 
see,  was  bandaged  and  carried  in  a  sling. 

"  Monsieur  le  Due,"  Andre  said  in  a  voice  that  rang 
through  the  room,  "  His  Majesty  commands  your  pres- 
ence at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  Council  Chamber."  He 
paused  to  allow  the  royal  message  to  be  appreciated  by 
the  attentive  company ;  then  he  added :  ' '  And,  Mon- 
sieur le  Due,  I  beg  to  say  for  myself  that  if  your  Grace 


On  Secret  Service  273 

wishes  to  know  where  your  servant  and  that  of  the 
Comte  de  Mont  Rouge  are,  who  attempted  to  murder 
me  last  night  when  carrying  out  the  commission  of  the 
King  of  France,  your  Grace  will  find  them  both  dead, 
along  with  two  others,  in  the  inn  called  '  The  Cock 
with  the  Spurs  of  Gold.'  " 

A  haughty  bow,  and  he  had  left  the  astonished 
Duke  and  the  appalled  audience  to  their  bewildered 
reflections. 

18 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

KING  FAINTS 


THE  customary  midday  service  in  the  chapel  at  the 
palace  that  morning  was  unusually  crowded.  Man- 
sart's  dignified  and  classical  architecture  in  all  its  frigid 
splendour  is  best  viewed  to-day  by  the  visitor  from  the 
royal  tribune,  and  it  is  with  difficulty  that  the  cold  and 
empty  desolation  condescends  to  conjure  up  for  the  im- 
agination the  historic  share  of  this  chapel  in  the  grand 
age  of  the  French  monarchy.  For  under  Louis  XV.  — 
sensualist  and  bigot  —  the  homage  of  attendance  at  the 
rites  of  the  religion  of  the  Sovereign  and  the  national 
Church  was  as  profitable,  nay,  as  obligatory,  as  obe- 
dience to  the  inflexible  conventions  of  Court  etiquette 
and  the  good  breeding  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
So,  indeed,  it  had  been  under  Louis  XIV.  and  the 
ascetic  pietism  of  Madame  de  Maintenon;  so  it  contin- 
ued to  be  under  Louis  XV.  and  the  genial  culture  of 
Madame  de  Pompadour  and  the  libertinism  of  Madame 
du  Barry.  But,  Andre,  like  every  one  else  in  the  con- 
gregation that  morning,  was  not  thinking  of  this  curi- 
ous paradox  as  his  eye  scanned  the  dtvots  worshipping 

274 


The  King  Faints  275 

beside  the  men  and  women  who  patronised  Voltaire  and 
laughed  at  miracles  in  polished  epigrams  that  dissolved 
the  central  truths  of  the  Christian  faith  into  a  riddle  for 
the  vulgar.  He  saw  the  King,  the  Queen,  and  the  crowd 
of  courtiers,  he  saw  Madame  de  Pompadour,  who  as  yet 
had  not  gained,  as  she  did  later,  the  seat  she  coveted 
in  the  grand  tribune.  He  was  asking  himself,  as  he 
mechanically  rose  from  or  fell  on  his  knees,  where  was 
the  Duke  of  Pontchartrain  and  what  had  the  King 
said  to  him  ? 

Andre,  alike  with  the  foes  of  his  own  order,  knew 
that  a  crisis  had  been  reached.  The  next  forty-eight 
hours  must  settle  decisively  the  great  battle  between 
the  Court  and  the  maltresse  en  litre.  And  the  decision 
rested  with  the  royal  figure  kneeling  devoutly  on  his 
crimson  faldstool,  with  that  man  of  the  soft,  impene- 
trable, bored  eyes,  who  broke  all  the  Ten  Command- 
ments, yet  said  his  prayers  with  the  same  absorption  as 
the  most  fanatical  d&vot.  Yes;  L,ouis's  worship  was 
watched  with  feverish  interest  by  every  man  and 
woman  present. 

"  He  is  in  a  great  rage,"  the  Comtesse  des  Forges 
whispered,  as  she  crossed  herself;  "  he  never  says  all 
the  responses  unless  he  is  truly  angry." 

The  Abbe  de  St.  Victor  tittered  gently,  rather  be- 
cause the  licentious  love  story  he  had  had  stitched  into 
his  service-book  had  reached  an  amusing  dtno&ment. 
"  To  be  sure,"  he  whispered  back  behind  his  lace  hand- 
kerchief, "  and  he  never  is  so  polite  to  the  Queen 


276  No.  101 

as  when  he  is  hopelessly  in  love  with  another 
woman." 

"  Poor  Pontchartrain,"  whispered  the  Duchess,  "  al- 
ways kisses  me  with  passion  half  an  hour  before  he 
kisses  Francoise.  All  well-bred  men  are  like  the  King 
in  that,  I  suppose.  It  is  the  kiss  of  peace,"  she  pouted 
at  the  High  Altar. 

The  Abbe  tittered  again  with  dulcet  decorum,  but, 
seeing  Denise's  eye  on  him,  prayed  for  the  rest  of  the 
service  with  exemplary  fervency  and  finished  his  love 
story  at  the  same  time. 

When  the  congregation  broke  up,  the  Queen's  ante- 
chamber was  the  general  meeting-place  of  the  noble 
rebels,  and  Denise,  lingering  without,  marked  with 
surprise  Madame  de  Pompadour's  sedan  chair  stop  in 
the  gallery.  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  her  chair 
just  because  it  was  the  privilege  of  mesdames  of 
the  blood-royal,  but  to  return  this  way  was  a  fresh 
outrage. 

Denise  was  still  more  surprised  when  she  was  ad- 
dressed. 

"  I  beg  you,"  said  the  lady,  "  to  present  my  humble 
duties  to  her  Majesty  and  to  pray  her  to  do  me  the 
honour  of  accepting  these  flowers."  She  tendered  a 
magnificent  bouquet. 

Denise  looked  her  up  and  down.  ' '  The  gentleman- 
usher  of  the  week,  Madame,"  she  replied,  making 
a  motion  with  her  fan,  "conveys  messages  to  her 
Majesty." 


The  King  Faints  277 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  Madame  de  Pompadour  said 
sweetly,  "  but  I  asked  a  favour,  Mademoiselle;  may  I 
simply  add  that  I  hope  if  the  Marquise  de  Beau  S£jour 
should  so  far  forget  herself  as  ever  to  ask  a  favour  of 
the  Marquise  de  Pompadour  she  will  not  be  so  foolish 
or  so  uncharitable  as  to  refer  it  to  her  gentleman- 
usher." 

The  two  women  confronted  each  other  in  silence. 
Then  Madame  de  Pompadour  curtsied  deferentially, 
stepped  into  her  chair,  and  disappeared.  Denise  walked 
into  the  antechamber  with  two  angry  red  spots  in  her 
pale  cheeks  and  her  grey  eyes  blazing. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  cried  the  Comtesse  des  Forges.  "  It 
is  insufferable.  What  insolence !  My  consolations, 
dear  Mademoiselle." 

"There  is  something  coming,"  the  Abb6  de  St. 
Victor  said  gravely.  "The  grisette's  speech  was  a 
trumpet  of  war.  Before  long  there  will  be  a  new  maid 
of  honour — that 's  what  she " 

"  A  hundred  1-livres  to  one,"  stammered  Des  Forges, 
"  that  it  is  n-not  this  week." 

"  I  '11  take  that,"  said  the  Abbe",  using  the  jewelled 
pencil  the  Duchess  had  given  him.  ' '  I  want  a  hundred 
livres  sorely." 

"Here  is  the  Duchess,"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle 
Claire. 

' '  Well  ?  the  news— the  news  ? ' '  cried  a  dozen  excited 
voices. 

"Terrible,"  said  the  Duchess,  fanning  herself  Ian- 


278  No.  101 

guidly,  "  terrible.  Pontchartrain  is  ordered  to  his  es- 
tates ;  he  is  forbidden  Paris  and  Versailles." 

' '  For  how  long  ? ' ' 

"  For  ever — for  ever.  No  time  was  said.  The  King 
was  dreadfully  angry.  He  swore  by  St.  Louis  and  re- 
fused to  believe  all  Pontchartrain' s  falsehoods.  Oh, 
my  friends,  think  of  living  always  in  the  country, 
the  horrible  country,  where  there  are  so  many  rosy- 
cheeked  wenches  that  milk  cows.  Poutchartrain 
will  take  to  drinking  milk  for  breakfast,  I  am 
sure,  before  I  am  dressed,  and  Francoise  will  never 
consent  to  live  in  our  chateau,  and  I  sha'n't  have 
any  one  worth  a  sou  to  wash  my  lace  and  do  my 
hair.  Ah!  the  King  is  abominably  cruel  and  incon- 
siderate. ' ' 

While  the  ladies  were  bewailing  her  fate,  St.  Ben6it 
turned  to  the  Abbe.  "  How  could  the  Duke  be  such 
a  fool,"  he  asked  savagely,  "as  to  allow  Andre  to  be 
attacked — Andre  of  all  men  ?  " 

"The  information  was  explicit,"  the  Abbe  said,  in 
a  low  voice.  If  the  attack  had  succeeded,  we  should 
have  ruined  the  grisette." 

St.  Ben6it  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  The  folly,"  added  the  Abbe,  "  lay  in  employing  fel- 
lows who  could  be  recognised." 

"With  the  result,"  growled  St.  Benoit,  "that  the 
country  will  enjoy  the  ablest  head  in  our  party.  It  's 
simply  disgusting." 

"Exactly,"  commented  the  Chevalier  drily.      "I 


The  King  Faints  279 

sympathise  with  the  Duke.     Only  I  have  n't  a  chateau 
to  retire  to,  worse  luck." 

The  remark  had  been  heard  by  the  ladies,  and  called 
out  a  dozen  questions. 

"Yes,  Duchess,"  the  Chevalier  said  quietly,  "  this 
afternoon  I  have  my  last  audience  with  His  Majesty. 
I  understand  I  am  to  be  dismissed— from  Versailles, 
perhaps  from  France." 

"  But  who  will  take  your  place  ?  "  cried  Mademoiselle 
Claire. 

"The  lady  who  will  shortly  take  all  our  places, 
Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour." 

He  glanced  at  Denise,  and  the  glance  went  home. 
She  had  refused  to  let  him  ruin  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour and  Andr6  with  her;  he  had  obeyed  because  he 
loved  her;  and  he  alone,  poor  boy,  was  to  pay  the  pen- 
alty. In  Denise' s  soul,  stricken  by  remorse,  surged  the 
wild  desire  that  had  been  shaping  for  days.  If  only  by 
some  great  act  of  renunciation,  of  self-sacrifice,  she 
could  repair  the  terrible  harm  that  her  love  for  Andr6 
had  done  to  her  and  their  cause. 

"  We  are  ruined,  beaten,"  the  Comtesse  des  Forges 
said  in  a  hopeless  tone.  "  That  woman  has  won. 
Fate  is  against  us." 

"  Yes,  nothing  but  a  miracle  can  save  us  now,"  St. 
Ben6it  remarked. 

"And  even  the  Abbe"  will  admit  that  the  age  of 
miracles  is  past." 

"You  forget,  mon  cher.    The  grisette  is  herself  a 


280  No.  loi 

miracle — of  Satan,"  retorted  the  Abbe,  but  the  com- 
pany was  in  no  mood  for  jests.  The  completeness  of 
Madame  de  Pompadour's  triumph  was  too  convincing 
and  too  galling.  And  the  Duke's  dismissal  they  knew 
well  would  be  followed  shortly  by  other  blows  as  cruel, 
as  well  directed,  and  as  insulting.  The  King  was  in 
the  hands  of  an  able  and  unscrupulous  woman  with  an 
abler  hero  as  her  ally,  and  the  King  was  absolute  mas- 
ter of  France. 

"  If  only  His  Majesty  would  fall  ill,"  murmured  the 
Duchess,  "  if  only  he  would  fall  dangerously  ill." 

"  Ah!  "  the  Comtesse  cried,  with  a  splendidly  vin- 
dictive gleam  under  her  heavy  eyelids,  ' '  ah,  then  we 
could  treat  that  wanton  as  we  treated  the  Duchess  of 
Chdteauroux." 

The  company  assented  in  silence.  Well  did  they  all 
remember  the  memorable  events  of  Metz  in  1743,  when 
L,ouis  the  Well-Beloved  had  been  smitten  down,  and 
the  Church  and  the  Court  had  so  skilfully  used  his 
fears  of  death  to  get  the  maltresse  en  titre,  the  Duchess 
of  Ch&teauroux,  dismissed. 

"  And  the  Duchess  died,  the  miserable  sinner,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Claire,  ' '  very  soon.  It  surely  was  the 
judgment  of  Heaven." 

"  The  same  miracle,"  smiled  the  Abbe,  "  never  hap- 
pens twice,  alas  ! ' ' 

"  And  the  King  was  never  so  well  as  to-day,"  added 
St.  Ben6it,  remorsefully. 

Denise  had  already  withdrawn.     Deep  as  was  her 


The  King  Faints  281 

resentment  against  Madame  de  Pompadour,  strong  as 
was  her  desire  by  self-sacrifice,  if  need  be,  to  atone  for 
what  she  now  felt  was  a  sin,  the  conversation  of  her 
friends  never  failed  to  offend  her  tastes  and  her  con- 
science. She  was  working  for  a  cause,  they  were  sim- 
ply bent  on  vengeance. 

The  Chevalier  met  her  in  the  gallery  as  he  thought- 
fully strolled  away. 

"  Courage,  Mademoiselle,"  he  stopped  to  say.  "  I 
cannot  win  your  love;  perhaps  I  may  yet  be  permitted 
to  help  to  make  you  happy,"  and  he  glided  off  before 
she  could  ask  what  he  meant  or  speak  a  word  of  all  the 
things  she  longed  to  say. 

The  young  man  had  guessed  aright.  That  afternoon 
Louis  dismissed  him  in  royally  curt  words,  intimating 
at  the  same  time  that  he  desired  to  see  him  no  more  at 
Versailles  or  Paris.  The  Chevalier  simply  bowed,  and 
the  King  now  sat  alone  in  his  private  Cabinet  de  Tra- 
vail busy  with  his  secret  correspondence  and  somewhat 
troubled  in  mind.  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  had  her 
way,  but  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,  Louis  was  aware, 
left  his  service  with  a  dangerous  store  of  knowledge. 
And  Louis  was  in  fact  penning  a  secret  order  to  the 
police  for  his  immediate  arrest  and  detention  in  the 
fortress  of  Vinceunes  when  the  rings  of  the  curtain 
over  the  door  behind  him  rasped  sharply.  Some  one 
had  unceremoniously  entered. 

The  King  turned  angrily  at  this  extraordinary 
defiance  of  his  express  command  that  he  was  to  be 


282  No.  ioi 

disturbed  by  no  one.  One  glance,  and  the  pen  dropped 
from  his  hand. 

' '  You  recognise  me,  Sire  ? ' '  said  the  intruder  slowly. 

"Dead — dead,"  the  King  muttered.  His  fingers 
had  clenched,  his  face  was  ashy  grey. 

' '  I  was  dead,  but  I  have  come  back  as  I  promised. 
The  dead  do  not  forget." 

Louis  stared  straight  at  him  as  a  man  stares  in  fear 
through  the  dark.  Two  great  drops  of  perspiration 
dripped  on  to  the  unsigned  letlre  de  cachet. 

"Some  day,  perhaps  soon,"  said  the  man,  "your 
Majesty  will  answer  for  your  acts,  not  at  the  tribunal 
of  men,  but  at  the  tribunal  of — the  devil." 

Louis  crouched  in  his  chair.  His  lips  moved,  but 
he  could  not  speak. 

"  Fifteen  years  ago  we  last  met,  your  Majesty  and  I. 
My  wife  was  stolen  from  me,  my  nobility  branded, 
myself  condemned  and  executed  on  a  false  charge,  and 
you,  Sire,  were  the  author  of  all  these  foul  deeds.  To- 
day your  Majesty  is  betrayed  by  the  unknown.  The 
man  who  steals,  and  will  continue  to  steal,  your  papers, 
Sire,  is  not  'No.  ioi';  it  is  I — I — "  he  stepped  for- 
ward—"I,  the  dead." 

Louis  shrank  back,  his  dry  lips  moving;  his  fingers 
convulsively  crept  towards  the  hand-bell. 

"  Touch  that  bell,"  said  the  man  in  a  terrible  tone, 
"  and  I  will  strangle  you,  Sire — royal  betrayer  of  wo- 
men, curse  of  the  orphan  and  the  fatherless." 

Louis's  arm  fell  paralysed  at  his  side. 


The  King  Faints  283 

"Take  warning,"  the  unknown  continued,  "take 
warning  in  time.  If  you,  Sire,  would  save  yourself 
from  the  judgment  of  God,  dismiss  at  once  the  woman 
who  betrays  you,  the  woman  called  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour."  He  paused  and  repeated  her  name 
twice,  adding  with  emphasis  on  each  word,  "And  re- 
member Dieu  Le  Vengeur !  Dieu  Le  Vengeur!" 

The  motto  seemed  to  strike  an  awful  chord  in  the 
King's  memory.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
When  at  last  a  long  silence  gave  him  courage  again  to 
look  up,  the  room  was  empty.  He  was  alone! 

Ah!  He  had  dreamed  an  evil  dream,  that  was  all. 
With  a  shudder  of  relief  he  stretched  his  arms  as  one 
freed  from  the  mastery  of  unendurable  pain.  A  dream, 
thank  God!  an  evil  dream.  And  then  his  eye  fell  on 
his  desk.  The  lettre  de  cachet  was  torn  into  bits,  and 
the  bits  were  wet  with  the  perspiration  of  his  agony. 
The  King  tottered  to  his  feet,  clutched  at  the  hand-bell 
feverishly,  and  rang — rang — rang. 

The  gentleman-usher  stared  in  awe  at  His  Majesty's 
ashy  grey  face  and  twitching  lips. 

"  Did— did  any  one  pass  out  ?  "  Louis  stammered. 

"Sire?" 

"  Did  any  one  pass  out,  out  from  here  ?  "  Louis  re- 
peated. 

"  No,  Sire."  The  man's  face  was  both  puzzled  and 
frightened.  His  royal  master  put  his  hand  on  a  chair 
to  support  himself. 

"  You  are  sure?" 


284  No.  101 

"  I  heard  voices  in  the  room,  Sire,  but " 

"  You  heard  voices,  ah! " 

' '  But  I  can  swear  no  one  either  entered  or  left  since 
your  Majesty  gave  orders  for — ah!  Au  secours!  Hola 
there!  kola!  au  secours  !  the  gentleman -usher's  voice 
had  become  a  shriek.  '  lAu  secours  !  Le  Roi,  le  Roi  /  ' ' 
had  fallen  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  WISHED-FOR  MIRACLE 

THE  wished-for  miracle  had  happened  after  all.  Yet 
the  news  that  the  King  had  suddenly  fainted,  which 
spread  like  wildfire  through  the  palace,  was  at  first 
made  light  of.  "The  King,"  said  the  Abbe"  de  St. 
Victor,  "  likes  to  show  a  touch  of  human  and  feminine 
weakness;  he  faints  as  women  do,  to  relieve  the  ennui 
of  perpetual  flattery."  In  two  or  three  hours,  how- 
ever, it  was  known  that  after  being  put  to  bed  His 
Majesty  had  fainted  again  and  again,  that  he  had 
scarcely  rallied,  that  the  doctors  whispered  of  palsy 
and  a  stroke,  and  that  his  condition  was  truly  critical. 
The  excitement  slowly  rose  to  feverish  anxiety,  min- 
gled with  no  little  exultation.  Versailles  was  thrilled 
as  Paris  and  France  had  been  thrilled  in  1743,  when 
the  King's  dangerous  illness  at  Metz  had  fired  every 
class  into  touching  demonstrations  of  passionate  loy- 
alty. About  midnight  the  watchers  could  relate  that 
urgent  couriers  had  been  despatched,  on  what  errands 
no  one  could  precisely  say,  but  it  was  certain  that  Mon- 
sieur le  Dauphin,  absent  on  a  hunting  expedition,  had 

285 


286  No.  101 

been  summoned  to  return  at  once,  that  mesdames  the 
princesses  were  being  fetched  from  their  convent,  that 
a  council  of  ministers  would  be  held  as  soon  as  the 
Dauphin  arrived,  that  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  and  the 
saintly  Bishop  of  Bordeaux,  then  in  the  capital,  had 
been  invited  by  the  King's  confessor  to  come  to  Ver- 
sailles. Towards  dawn  the  doctors  reported  that  His 
Majesty  had  been  twice  bled,  that  he  had  rallied  for  an 
hour  and  then  slowly  slipped  back  into  virtual  uncon- 
sciousness. Unless — unless,  the  whispers  ran,  a  change 
for  the  better  came  soon,  France  would  have  a  new  king. 
And  Madame  de  Pompadour?  Her  name  was  on 
every  one's  lips.  A  new  king!  Would  it  be  the  Bas- 
tile  or  Vincennes  for  the  grisette  then  ?  Fierce  joy 
throbbed  in  the  Queen's  apartments  when  the  rumour 
was  confirmed  that  Madame  de  Pompadour,  on  hearing 
of  her  royal  lover's  illness,  had  at  once  hurried  to  his 
room,  but  that  the  door  had  been  shut  in  her  face,  by 
whose  orders  no  one  knew,  nor  whether  it  was  with  the 
King's  consent  or  not.  What  was  certain  was  that  the 
King's  confessor  had  refused  to  prepare  his  Sovereign 
for  absolution  so  long  as  he  remained  in  mortal  sin,  and 
that  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  and  the  Bishop  of  Bordeaux 
would  without  doubt  presently  support  the  confessor. 
The  dramatic  scene  at  Metz  was  in  fact  repeating  itself 
at  Versailles.  The  King  must  be  reconciled  to  his 
Queen  and  wife,  must  confess  his  sin,  and  promise  to 
dismiss  the  partner  in  his  guilt  from  his  Court  and  his 
presence  before  he  could  receive  the  most  solemn  minis,- 


A  Wished-For  Miracle  287 

trations  of  the  Church.  And  when  Queen  Marie 
Leczinska's  ladies  were  aware  that  their  royal  mistress 
had  on  her  own  initiative  gone  to  her  husband's  sick 
couch,  had  been  admitted,  and  had  not  yet  returned,  a 
sigh  of  thankfulness,  exultation,  and  vengeance  went 
up.  The  hours  of  Madame  de  Pompadour's  supremacy 
were  numbered.  A  just  Heaven  had  intervened. 
Madame  de  Pompadour  was  doomed. 

By  nine  o'clock  next  morning  the  noblesse  had  flocked, 
or  were  still  flocking,  in  crowds  from  Paris  to  Ver- 
sailles, thirsting  for  news,  pining  for  revenge,  on  the 
tiptoe  of  excitement.  The  court-yards  and  stables 
were  blocked  with  their  carriages  and  every  minute 
brought  fresh  arrivals.  The  CEjil  de  Boeuf  was  filled 
with  officers,  nobles,  clerics,  officials,  who  overflowed 
into  the  Galerie  des  Glaces,  in  the  noble  windows  of 
which  chattered  groups  of  eager  questioners.  In  the 
CEil  de  Boeuf  itself  the  subdued  babble  of  talk  rose  and 
fell,  but  all  eyes  were  alertly  watching  the  white  and 
gold  doors  so  jealously  kept  by  the  Swiss  Guards.  Be- 
yond was  the  royal  bed-chamber,  but  what  was  passing 
within  who  could  say  ?  The  physicians  had  forbidden 
the  entree  to  every  one  save  the  King's  valet,  a  couple 
of  menial  servants,  the  royal  confessor,  and  now  the 
Bishop  of  Bordeaux.  How  critical  affairs  were  reck- 
oned to  have  become  could  be  judged  by  the  presence 
of  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,  the  Duke  of  Pontchar- 
train,  and  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge,  who  had  dared 
thus  to  defy  the  exile  imposed  by  the  sick  King. 


288  No.  101 

"  I  t-tell  you,"  Des  Forges  was  saying,  "  he  s-saw  a 
d-devil  and  f- fainted.  I  d-don't  w- wonder." 

"  It  was  n't  a  devil  nor  the  devil;  it  was  a  woman," 
the  Abb6  corrected.  "  Some  women  are  devils,  but  all 
devils  are  not  women.  That  is  logic  and  truth  to- 
gether, which  is  rare." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  woman,"  Mont  Rouge  added.  "  A 
woman  in  the  shape  of  a  vampire." 

"  It  was  only  a  flower  girl,"  Pontchartrain  laughed, 
and  he  threw  in  a  ribald  story  which  set  his  hearers 
choking  with  laughter. 

"  Well,  when  he  was  bled  the  blood  came  out 
black " 

"  No,  no;  purple  "— "  yellow  "— "  blue  "—corrected 
half  a  dozen  voices,  and  each  had  a  witness  who  had 
seen  the  bleeding  and  could  swear  to  the  colour;  and 
so  the  speculation  as  to  the  causes  of  the  King's  illness 
gaily  ran  on.  The  most  extraordinary  theories  were 
afloat,  for  that  the  King  had  ' '  seen  something ' '  was 
now  a  matter  of  common  knowledge.  But  all  were 
agreed  on  one  point — Madame  de  Pompadour's  fate 
was  sealed.  Whether  the  King  recovered  or  whether 
the  Dauphin  succeeded  him  the  grisette  was  ruined. 

Andre"  had  hurried  from  the  Queen's  antechamber 
to  learn  what  could  be  learned.  A  glimpse  of  Denise's 
proud,  pale  face  had  been  granted  him  as  his  spurs  rang 
along  the  galleries.  He  had  read  in  it  pity  wrestling 
with  joy,  and  his  soul  was  bitter  within  him.  And 
the  cold  glances,  the  silence  of  his  friends  if  he  drew 


A  Wished- For  Miracle  289 

near,  the  shrugs  of  the  shoulders,  completed  the  tale. 
He,  too,  was  ruined  if  the  Court  could  have  its  way. 
His  foes,  though  they  had  not  published  their  evidence 
yet,  could  prove  that  he  was  the  ally  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour.  His  success  inspired  their  jealousy,  his 
ability  their  fear.  They  had  tried  to  murder  him  in 
order  to  procure  the  final  damning  proof,  and  they  had 
failed.  But  he  could  never  be  forgiven  for  the  humili- 
ation of  the  Duke  of  Pontchartrain,  and  Mont  Rouge's 
arm,  not  yet  healed,  cried  out  for  vengeance.  To- 
morrow it  would  be  his  turn  for  exile  to  Nerac, 
stripped  of  his  honours,  happy  if  permitted  to  eat  his 
heart  out  in  a  debt-loaded  chateau  far  from  Paris  and 
Versailles.  Andre  had  played  for  a  great  stake;  he 
had  been  within  an  ace  of  winning  and  now  he  had 
lost.  Yet  alone,  shunned,  neglected  in  this  seething 
crowd,  he  found  himself  despising  as  he  had  never  de- 
spised before  the  noblesse  to  which  he  belonged.  The 
Court  of  a  dying  king  does  not  show  even  an  ancient 
and  haughty  nobility,  justly  proud  of  its  manners  and 
its  refinement,  at  its  best.  Of  the  hundreds  here  were 
there  any  who  felt  any  pity,  any  real  affection,  for  the 
Sovereign  over  whose  vices  they  were  jesting,  at  whose 
weaknesses  they  jibed  ?  Ambition,  curiosity,  greed, 
avarice,  jealousy,  could  be  read  in  many  faces;  the 
noblesse  were  here  to  worship  and  honour  the  rising 
sun,  to  flatter  the  Dauphin,  to  intrigue,  to  traffic  at  the 
foot  of  a  new  throne  in  the  squalid  and  sleepless  scuffle 
for  places,  pensions,  ribbons,  honours,  power.  Andre" 


NO.  101 


turned  away  and  gazed  out  of  the  window,  at  the  se- 
renely noble  gardens  where  the  autumn  sun  was  shining 
on  the  autumn  trees,  on  the  dewy  grass,  and  gleaming 
statues.  Yes,  the  peace  of  Nerac  near  the  Loire  would 
be  welcome  though  bought  by  failure  in  this  Court  of 
Versailles.  But  there  remained  "  No.  101,"  and  the 
fascination  of  that  unsolved  riddle  gripped  him  to-day 
more  mercilessly  than  ever  before.  The  key  to  the 
mystery  was  so  near.  Was  he,  too,  like  all  the  others, 
to  be  baffled  ?  And  then  there  was  Denise.  He  could 
have  had  her  love;  never  could  he  forget  that  supreme 
moment  when  they  had  stood  hand  in  hand,  and  life 
had  given  him  all  that  a  man's  soul  could  dream  or  de- 
sire ;  but  he  had  lost  Denise.  Had  he  ?  Ah,  had  he? 
And  as  he  stared  out  towards  the  Fountain  of  Neptune 
the  gardens  melted  into  a  dark  and  secret  staircase,  and 
once  again  he  heard  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  the 
Pompadour.  The  vision  filled  him  with  a  great  pity. 
She  was  no  worse  than  he  had  been.  There  were  wo- 
men in  this  Court  —  did  he  of  all  men  not  know  it?  — 
on  whose  carriages  glowed  coronets  and  haughty  coats 
of  arms,  with  as  little  right  to  absolution  as  Madame  de 
Pompadour  and  the  dying  King.  But  they  confessed 
and  were  absolved.  Confession  and  absolution!  The 
mummery  of  priests.  She  at  least  had  sinned  from 
ambition,  because  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  would  not 
permit  her  to  remain  Antoinette  de  Poisson.  But  she 
was  a  bourgeoise  and  they  were  noble.  For  all  that, 
could  those  noble  women  or  these  men  ever  understand 


A  Wished-For  Miracle  291 

— would  the  world  ever  understand  before  it  judged  the 
heart  of  such  a  woman  as  the  Pompadour  ?  To  him, 
perhaps,  alone  some  of  the  inscrutable  riddles  of  the 
spirit  had  been  revealed  because  his  heart,  too,  beat  as 
hers  did,  and  assuredly  to  that  hated  and  feared  woman 
to-day  the  bitterness  of  death  would  be  sweet  and  wel- 
come compared  with  the  bitterness — the  tragic  bitter- 
ness —  of  failure.  God  alone  —  if  there  was  a  God  — 
could  know  all  and  judge  aright.  For  her  and  for 
him,  in  this  hour  of  defeat,  a  great  pity  was  surely 
fittest. 

No  one  came  to  speak  to  him.  The  renegade  Vicomte 
de  Nerac,  alone  there  in  the  window,  scarcely  moved 
even  compassion.  He  had  deserted  his  order;  he  de- 
served punishment — to  be  an  example  to  traitors  who 
betrayed  their  blood  and  their  dignity— and  the  punish- 
ment had  begun.  No  one  ?  Yes,  one;  the  Chevalier 
de  St.  Amant.  Andre"  was  surprised — touched. 

"Pardon  my  presumption,"  the  young  man  said, 
"  but  you  and  I,  Vicomte,  have  more  than  once  crossed 
swords.  I  at  least  have  done  my  best  to  defeat  you; 
you  have  done  yours  to  defeat  me." 

"  Certainly,"  Andre  admitted  readily. 

"  And  you  have  won." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  Andre  smiled  as  he  looked  down  the 
crowded  Galerie  des  Glaces  and  back  at  the  empty 
space  where  they  stood. 

4 '  Yes,  Vicomte,  you  are  victor. "  His  tones  trembled 
with  emotion.  "  Victor  in  the  one  prize  that  matters— 


292  No.  101 

a  woman's  heart.  Do  not  you  forget  that.  I  at  least 
cannot." 

Andre  looked  into  his  eyes,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Whether,"  the  Chevalier  continued,  "  I  goto  Italy 
or  you  go  to  N6rac  is  a  little  thing;  but  the  other  is  a 
great  thing,  and  the  result  will  always  be  what  it  is — 
always.  It  has  been  a  fair  fight  if  fights  for  a  woman's 
love  can  ever  be  fair.  Will  you  give  me  the  pleasure 
of  shaking  hands  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  Andre"  answered,  with  much  emotion .  ' '  And 
if  I  am  not  sent  to  Nerac  you  shall  not  go  to  Italy." 

"We  will  see."  The  Chevalier  had  resumed  his 
jesting  tone,  for  they  were  both  being  jealously 
watched.  He  nodded  and  slipped  away.  Andre, 
muttering,  "Always,  always,"  slipped  away,  too. 
"Always."  Was  Denise  still  to  be  won,  or  why  had 
a  tear  stood  in  the  boy's  eye  when  he  had  spoken? 

"  Madame! "  he  cried,  aghast,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
Marquise  de  Pompadour's  salon. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  peignoir  in  front  of  the  fire, 
her  hair  about  her  lovely  shoulders,  staring  at  the 
smouldering  logs.  Trunks  half  packed  littered  the 
room.  Papers  torn  up  and  drawers  half  open  met 
the  eye  in  every  corner.  And  when  she  wearily  turned 
round  at  his  exclamation  her  face  was  the  face  of  a 
woman  sleepless,  haggard,  and  worn — the  face  of  one 
quieted  by  fear,  misery,  and  failure. 

"Ruined,  Vicomte,"  she  murmured  hopelessly, 
"ruined,  and  you,  too." 


A  Wished-For  Miracle  293 

"  Not  yet,"  he  answered,  with  such  poor  courage  as 
he  could  summon. 

She  flung  back  her  hair  and  pointed  at  him  with 
a  bare  arm.  "  I^ook  in  the  glass,  miserable  fellow- 
gambler;  your  eyes  are  as  mine,  hunted  by  despair  and 
defeat,  and  we  are  both  right.  My  God,  have  I  ever 
passed  such  a  night  ?  And  unless  I  am  gone  from  this 
palace  in  six  hours — oh,  they  have  warned  me — I  shall 
sleep  in  a  cell  at  Vincennes.  Courage,  pshaw!  The  King 
alone  could  save  me  and  I  have  lost  him  for  ever." 

1 '  Are  you  sure  ? ' ' 

She  waved  the  question  on  one  side.  "  It  is  a  plot," 
she  cried  passionately,  "a  plot  of  my  enemies.  They 
tried  to  murder  you  and  they  failed.  Now  this — this 
is  their  last  device.  They  have  poisoned  the  King,  that 
his  sick  body  may  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  priests, 
who  will  torture  his  soul  till  they  have  frightened  him 
into  dismissing  me.  What  can  one  woman  do  against 
the  Church,  whose  bishops  keep  mistresses  as  the  King 
does?  Nothing,  nothing.  I  am  ruined.  I  fly  from 
here  that  I  may  leave  Versailles  free.  Do  you  save 
yourself.  I  can  protect  you  no  longer.  Give  me  up, 
go  back  to  the  Court,  trample  on  the  unfortunate — it 
is  not  too  late  for  you.  Even  my  wenches  know  that, 
and  dare  to  insult  me." 

"  No,  Madame,  I  will  not  give  you  up." 

"  Poor,  mad  fool!  "  But  the  sudden,  radiant  flush  in 
that  haggard  face  would  have  inspired  a  man  under 
sentence  of  death  to  hope  and  joy. 


294  o.  101 

"  And  I  will  save  you  yet,  Marquise." 

She  looked  at  him,  fixedly.  "Vicomte,"  she 
moaned,  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry,  "save  me. 
Yes,  save  me,  I  implore  you." 

Her  helplessness  and  her  misery,  she,  who  twenty- 
four  hours  ago  had  been  the  Queen  of  L,ove  to  the 
Sovereign  of  France,  did  not  appeal  in  vain. 

"  The  King  may  recover,"  he  said,  "do  not  fly  yet. 
If  in  twelve  hours  I  do  not  return  you  will  never  see 
me  again.  Then,  but  not  till  then,  for  God's  sake 
save  yourself,  Madame." 

"  You  have  a  clue — know  something  ?  " 

"  Adieu." 

She  strove  to  keep  him,  but  he  bowed  himself  reso- 
lutely out,  and  he  knew  she  had  flung  herself  back  into 
that  chair  in  front  of  the  fire  to  watch  her  fortunes  and 
her  ambitions  flicker  out  with  the  dying  flames  in  the 
remorseless  march  of  the  hours. 

This  time  he  boldly  left  by  the  public  entrance. 

Twelve  hours!  Twelve  hours!  he  had  no  clue,  no 
information.  He  had  spoken  from  the  infatuation  of 
sheer  pity;  alas!  he  had  nothing  but  a  fierce  and  mean- 
ingless resolve. 

"Andre,"  called  softly  a  voice  he  knew  only  too  well. 
Denise  was  standing  in  the  empty  gallery,  and  in  her 
eyes  there  was  something  of  the  hunted  despair  and 
fear  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  read  in  his.  "Andre, 
you  have  been  to  see  her?  " 

"Yes." 


A  Wished- For  Miracle  295 

"She  is  ruined."  She  paused.  "And  they  will 
ruin  you  too.  I^et  me  save  you;  I  can." 

"  No, "  he  said,  very  quietly,  ' '  you  cannot. ' '  Denise 
looked  at  him,  trembling.  "  You  can  only  save  me  if 
I  now  at  once  go  on  my  knees  to  my  foes.  To  you  I 
would  gladly  do  it,  for  I  have  wronged  you,  and  I  love 
you,  but  to  them,  never!  never!  " 

Her  head  bowed  in  appealing  silence. 
'  The  Marquise  de  Pompadour,"  he  drew  himself  up, 
"  the  Marquise  honoured  me  with  her  friendship  when 
she  was  powerful.  Now  that  she  is  fallen  and  in  mis- 
ery I  will  not  be  such  a  dastard  as  to  save  myself  by 
helping  to  ruin  her.  No,  I  will  not!  " 

"You  are  mad,"  she  cried  incoherently.  But  his 
chivalry  fired  her  heart. 

"  You  must  do  as  you  think  right,  Denise,"  he  said 
gently,  "  and  so  must  I.  It  is  cruel  for  me — how  cruel 
— no,  I  must  not  speak."  He  broke  off  and  returned 
to  the  CEil  de  Bceuf. 

The  crowd  was  denser  than  ever.  Monsieur  le 
Dauphin  had  just  passed  through  the  heated,  suffocat- 
ing room  and  was  now  in  the  royal  bed-chamber.  Sud- 
denly the  subdued  babel  of  tongues  ceased  as  if  by 
magic.  The  doors  were  opening.  Dukes,  ministers, 
nobles,  lackeys  pushed  and  fought  to  get  to  the  front. 
The  King  was  dead!  Resolutely  the  Swiss  Guards 
stemmed  the  surging  tide.  Ha!  the  King's  physician. 
Dead  silence. 

"  Nobles  of  the  realm,  and  gentlemen,"  cried  the 


296  No.  101 

physician,  "  I  am  happy  to  say  that  the  sacred  person 
of  His  Majesty  is  no  longer  in  danger."  A  dull  roar 
as  of  inarticulate  wild  beasts  rose  and  fell.  "  With 
God's  help  the  King  of  France  will,  we  trust,  be  shortly 
restored  to  perfect  health." 

The  doors  were  closed  again.  The  Comte  de  Mont 
Rouge  wiped  his  brow. 

"  It  is  now  or  never,"  he  whispered  savagely  to  the 
Duke  of  Pontchartrain. 

"  Yes,  now  or  never,"  smiled  the  Duke,  "  for  I  prefer 
the  society  of  the  ladies  of  Versailles  and  Paris  to  that 
of  the  drabs  and  bigots  of  Pontchartrain." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  FAI<I,  OP  THE  DICE 

THE  excitement  was  rather  increased  than  diminished 
by  the  report  of  the  King's  recovery.  Indeed,  through- 
out, men's  and  women's  thoughts  were  absorbed  far 
more  feverishly  with  the  fortunes  of  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour than  with  those  of  lyouis  himself.  A  palace 
revolution  was  what  was  desired,  vengeance  on  the 
woman  who  had  threatened  to  become  dictator,  a  happy 
return  to  the  old  order;  and  the  King's  illness  was  only 
important  as  the  extraordinary  miracle  which  would 
accomplish  what  was  so  passionately  prayed  for.  The 
noble  gentlemen  and  ladies  spent  the  next  hour  in 
agitating  suspense.  And  when  it  was  reported  that 
the  King  had  rallied  so  marvellously  as  to  be  out  of 
bed,  to  eat  and  to  talk,  the  high  hopes  sank.  Another 
miracle  had  supervened  to  undo  the  work  of  the 
first. 

"  A  fig  for  miracles, ' '  said  Pontchartrain.  ' '  Voltaire 
and  the  philosophers  are  right;  they  are  either  stupid, 
useless,  or  meaningless.  We  can  get  on  so  much  better 
without  them." 

297 


298  No.  101 

The  "saints"  of  the  circle  in  the  Queen's  ante- 
chamber were  inexpressibly  shocked.  And  they 
sighed  at  the  inscrutable  and  irritating  way  in  which 
things  in  this  world  were  ordered  by  Providence. 

"Your  theology,  my  dear  Duke,"  savours  of  bour- 
geois vulgarity  and  ignorance.  Heaven  will  only  help 
those  who  help  themselves.  That  woman  must  be 
ruined  before  the  King  is  well  enough  to  become  in- 
sane again.  If  we  can  only  drive  her  from  the  palace 
to-day  she  will  never  return." 

"And,"  Mont  Rouge  added  significantly,  "there  is 
a  pleasant  pit  into  which  we  can  drive  her.  The  fall 
will  break  her  charming  neck."  He  began  to  explain 
very  earnestly  his  scheme,  which  was  listened  to  with 
the  most  eager  attention. 

"We  have  her,"  he  wound  up,  triumphantly.  "I 
shall  not  spend  the  winter  at  Mont  Rouge." 

The  next  news  was  very  inspiriting.  The  King,  on 
the  advice  of  his  physicians,  was  to  leave  Versailles  for 
Rambouillet,  where  change  of  air  and,  presently,  some 
of  his  favourite  hunting  would  completely  restore  his 
health.  He  was  to  leave  that  afternoon,  accompanied 
only  by  his  confessor,  his  physician,  and  half  a  dozen 
servants. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  commented  Pontchartrain,  "  how 
bored  he  will  be.  I  suppose  they  left  out  his  wife  be- 
cause there  are  limits  to  what  husbands  can  endure. 
You  agree,  ma  mignonne?"  He  kissed  his  Duchess's 
hands. 


The  Fall  of  the  Dice  299 

"  Yes,  because  there  are  no  limits,  mon  chert"  she  re- 
torted, "to  what  wives  must  endure." 

Ah,  we  shall  make  you  a  vulgar  and  ignorant  phi- 
losopher yet,  chtre  amie.  And,  as  His  Majesty  said  to 
the  grisette,  yours  is  an  education  which  promises  me 
infinite  amusement." 

But  the  best  part  of  the  new  information  had  still  to 
come.  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  tried  again  to  see 
the  King,  but  His  Majesty  had  listened  to  his  confes- 
sor's warning  and  refused.  The  doctors,  too,  had  for- 
bidden any  such  interviews.  The  King  must  on  no 
account  be  excited  or  annoyed.  Physicians  and  priests 
alike  had  their  cue  from  the  ministers;  and  the  King, 
subject  all  his  life  to  fits  of  gloomy  remorse  and  super- 
stition, was  again  ready,  after  his  illness,  to  listen  to 
the  solemn  remonstrances  from  the  Church  on  his  evil 
life.  Nor  did  the  Court  know  that  the  memory  of  the 
apparition,  which  had  been  the  cause  of  his  collapse, 
had  played  its  part  in  strengthening  his  determination 
to  free  himself  of  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

"  She,  too,  must  leave  Versailles,"  St.  Ben6it  urged. 
"  Mont  Rouge  has  shown  us  how  we  can  complete  the 
victory  once  we  have  driven  her  out.  When  the  King 
returns  from  Rambouillet  he  must  find  her  fled  and 
then — "  He  and  they  all  smiled.  As  soon  as  the 
King  could  bear  exciting  news  there  would  be  exciting 
news  for  him  with  a  vengeance. 

Denise  had  so  far  listened  in  silence.  She  now  made 
a  suggestion.  "  Can  we  not  frighten  her  away  ?  "  she 


3OO  No.  101 

said.  "  If  she  could  be  persuaded  her  life  is  in  danger, 
once  the  King  has  left  the  palace,  she  will  go  of  her  own 
accord.  I  am  quite  ready  to  see  her  and  tell  her  so. ' ' 

For  Denise  was  still  haunted  by  the  desire,  through 
some  act  of  self-sacrifice, — and  to  visit  Madame  de 
Pompadour  would  be  a  painful  humiliation, — to  atone 
for  what  her  conscience  called  treachery  in  the  past  to 
the  cause.  And  if  only  the  Pompadour  would  leave, 
Andre"  would  be  really  free  from  her  baleful  influence 
and  even  now  might  be  saved  against  himself. 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  Mademoiselle, ' '  the  Chevalier 
said.  ' '  I  have  j  ust  come  from  Madame' s  salon. ' '  The 
company  that  had  welcomed  his  noiseless  entry  waited 
breathlessly.  I  think  I  have  convinced  her  she  had 
better  leave  Versailles  this  very  afternoon." 

Denise  joined  heartily  in  the  sigh  of  relief.  But  the 
Chevalier's  next  sentence  was  disquieting.  "The 
Vicomte  de  Nerac,"  he  said,  "  is  now  in  audience  with 
the  King." 

What  did  that  mean  ?  Had  the  King  sent  for  him  ? 
He  was  strong  enough  to  see  him  ?  Had  the  doctors 
permitted  it  ?  Were  the  ministers  and  the  confessor  to 
be  present?  The  Chevalier  could  not  answer  these 
questions.  But  he  could  vouch  for  the  fact,  as  the 
Vicomte  had  himself  told  him  half  an  hour  ago  of  the 
royal  summons. 

"  More  than  ever  the  grisette  must  leave,"  the  Abbe* 
de  St.  Victor  pronounced.  "  Else  the  Vicomte  will  be 
her  agent  and  effect  a  reconciliation." 


The  Fall  of  the  Dice  301 

Mont  Rouge  and  the  Duke  de  Pontchartrain  were 
holding  an  earnest  conversation  in  whispers  with  the 
Chevalier.  What  the  Chevalier  said  clearly  gave  them 
great  satisfaction,  and  Mont  Rouge  studied  with  ill- 
concealed  joy  a  paper  which  looked  like  a  plan  that  the 
Chevalier  had  produced. 

"  The  time  has  come  for  the  dice,"  Mont  Rouge  said 
decisively.  With  the  help  of  the  Duke  he  cleared  a 
table  and  laid  out  on  it  four  dice-boxes. 

"  The  ladies  will  throw  as  well  as  the  gentlemen  ?  " 
asked  the  Comtesse  des  Forges.  She  was  looking 
meaningly  at  Mont  Rouge. 

"  It  is  hardly  necessary,"  the  Duke  said  carelessly. 
' '  But  if  one  lady  be  good  enough  to  take  her  chance 
then  all  must.  What  do  you  say,  ladies  ? ' ' 

"  I  am  always  unlucky,"  remarked  the  Duchess,  "  so 
I  will  take  my  chance." 

"And  you,  Marquise?"  the  Duke  turned  deferen- 
tially to  Denise.  Mont  Rouge  took  up  one  of  the  dice- 
boxes  and  began  to  rattle  it  noisily.  Had  his  courage 
not  been  beyond  reproach,  a  close  observer  might  have 
thought  he  was  at  that  moment  very  nervous.  The 
Comtesse  des  Forges  was  yawning  at  her  beautiful  face 
in  the  mirror. 

Before  Denise  could  reply,  Andre"  was  seen  standing 
on  the  threshold.  A  cold  air  seemed  at  once  to  blow 
over  the  room.  No  one  offered  a  word  of  greeting,  and 
the  conversation  proceeded  just  as  if  a  lackey  had  en- 
tered. The  Chevalier,  indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  bow 


302  No.  101 

haughtily  and  to  leave  the  room  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  found  Andre's  presence  an  intolerable  intrusion. 
Denise  alone  marked  how  pale  Andre  was  and  how  his 
dark  eyes  burned.  A  choking  sensation,  as  if  her  heart 
had  ceased  to  beat,  mastered  her. 

"  I  am  sure,"  Andre  said  very  slowly  and  distinctly, 
"  it  will  interest  you  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  know  that 
I  have  ceased  to  be  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guards,  by 
His  Majesty's  commands."  A  rustle  of  skirts,  a  sup- 
pressed exclamation,  a  snuff-box  dropped,  showed  in 
the  dead  silence  the  emotion  this  news  had  produced. 
"  I  am  ordered,"  Andre  continued,  "  to  retire  to  Nerac 
until  His  Majesty  is  pleased  to  change  his  mind.  My 
congratulations,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  You  desired 
and  plotted  my  ruin.  You  have  achieved  it." 

The  curtain  dropped.  "And  you,  Marquise?" 
repeated  the  Duke,  imperturbably,  holding  out  a  dice- 
box  to  Denise  as  if  nothing  had  interrupted  the  con- 
versation. 

Denise  saw  all  the  flushed  faces,  the  joy,  the  ban- 
ished fears.  Too  late!  Too  late!  She  could  not  save 
Andre.  No,  but  perhaps  she  could  still  punish  the 
woman  who  had  seduced  and  ruined  the  man  she  loved. 

"Of  course  I  will  gladly  take  my  chance,"  she 
answered,  in  a  voice  of  reckless  revolt. 

Andre"  was  pacing  down  the  gallery.  No  one  could 
have  taken  him  for  a  ruined  man,  for  aught  than  a 
proud  officer  in  the  Chevau-le'gers  de  la  Garde,  a  Croix 
de  St.  Louis,  and  a  Cordon  Bleu.  Though  he  knew 


The  Fall  of  the  Dice  303 

that  fate  had  at  last  smitten  him  down,  the  bitterest 
thought  in  his  mind  was  that  in  a  few  hours  Madame 
de  Pompadour  would  be  flying,  too,  from  Versailles. 
The  twelve  hours  would  run  out;  she  would  never  see 
him  again. 

"  So  it  is  N£rac  after  all?" 

Andre"  started.  The  Chevalier  was  at  his  elbow. 
"No,"  he  answered,  "it  will  not  be  N6rac." 

"The  best  swordsman  in  France  will,  to  be  sure, 
take  a  lot  of  killing,"  the  young  man  retorted  lightly. 

The  flash  in  Andre's  eye  showed  with  what  true 
sympathy  the  Chevalier  had  divined  his  meaning. 

"Well,  Vicomte,  let  us  say  adieu.  We  shall  not 
meet  again  in  Versailles,  nor  elsewhere,  I  fancy."  Be- 
hind the  tone  of  raillery  peeped  out  a  strange,  almost 
tragic,  gravity. 

They  shook  hands  in  silence;  had,  in  fact,  separated 
a  few  paces  when  the  Chevalier  added  carelessly, 
"  There  was  a  wench  asking  for  you  in  the  stables — 
Yvonne  or  some  such  name — I  could  n't  make  out 
what  it  was  all  about,  but  she  seemed  distressed  at  not 
getting  word  with  you.  Pardon  my  mentioning  such 
a  trifle."  He  hurried  away. 

Yvonne!  Andre"  halted  dead.  Yvonne!  Name  of 
St.  Denys,  what  did  that  mean  ?  For  a  moment  he 
wavered  as  if  he  hoped  against  hope  that  Denise  might 
appear.  Then  his  spurs  rang  out  on  the  polished  floor. 
He  was  hurrying  to  the  stables. 

The  Chevalier  went  back  to  the  antechamber. 


304  No.  101 

' '  Only  two, ' '  Mont  Rouge  was  saying,  as  he  entered 
the  room,  ' '  only  two  threw  sixes,  two  ladies  curiously 
enough,  the  Comtesse  des  Forges  and  the  Marquise  de 
Beau  Sejour." 

"How  stupid,"  yawned  the  Comtesse.  "Must  we 
throw  again  ?  Or,  perhaps,  Mademoiselle  Denise  will 
kindly  withdraw  and  leave  me  victor?  " 

"No,  no,"  protested  Mont  Rouge,  "the  cast  of  the 
dice  must  be  fairly  played  out;  I  insist."  And  the 
company  unanimously  agreed  with  him. 

"  Oh,  very  well."  The  Comtesse  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  Comte,  you  shall  throw  for  me  this  time." 

Mont  Rouge  took  up  one  of  the  dice-boxes  which  he 
had  been  fingering  for  some  minutes. 

"And  will  the  Marquise  permit  me  to  throw  for 
her,"  inquired  the  Chevalier. 

Denise  assented  with  a  nod.  But  the  suggestion  did 
not  seem  to  please  the  Comtesse.  A  gleam  of  vindic- 
tive malevolence  lingered  under  her  heavy  lids,  but  a 
glance  from  Mont  Rouge  reassured  her. 

The  Chevalier  advanced  and  threw  a  four  and  a 
three.  Mont  Rouge,  the  company  standing  round  and 
watching  eagerly,  threw  carelessly  enough  a  two  and 
a  one. 

"  Bungler!  "  cried  the  Comtesse,  "  you  have  lost." 

"I  did  my  best,"  Mont  Rouge  answered,  looking 
into  her  eyes,  and  he  added  in  a  whisper,  ' '  my  best 
for  you.  You  have  lost,  but  I  have  won." 

The  Comtesse  put  her  hand  warningly  on  her  lips. 


The  Fall  of  the  Dice  305 

Her  gaze  lingered  on  Denise,  pale  and  calm,  accepting 
her  victory  as  the  inevitable  will  of  fate.  "  My  con- 
gratulations, Mademoiselle,"  she  said  in  the  silky 
tones  with  which  women  preface  the  insult  of  a  kiss  to 
their  most- feared  rival. 

"I  will  accept  them  to-morrow,"  Denise  answered, 
"  when  I  have  done  my  duty." 

While  the  company  were  chattering  gaily  the  Cheva- 
lier carelessly  and  unnoticed  took  up  the  dice,  first  the 
four  and  the  three  he  had  thrown  for  Denise,  and  then 
the  two  and  the  one  thrown  by  Mont  Rouge,  which 
were  still  lying  on  the  table.  As  he  put  back  the 
two  and  the  one  into  the  box  which  belonged  to  Mont 
Rouge  he  smiled.  He  had  detected  these  two  were 
loaded,  yet  curiously  enough  he  said  nothing.  Indeed, 
the  discovery  seemed  to  give  him  positive  pleasure,  and 
he  rallied  the  Comtesse  des  Forges  for  a  good  half-hour, 
till  her  husband  stammered  with  rage  and  Mont  Rouge 
was  sulky  with  jealousy. 

Just  as  the  company  were  breaking  up  a  sweating 
horse  dashed  into  the  stables  of  the  palace.  Andre" 
flung  himself  from  the  saddle.  He  had  ridden  from 
"The Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold "  at  a  break-neck 
gallop  and  his  spurs  were  red.  He  now  hurried  off  to 
Madame  de  Pompadour's  salon,  bursting  in  from  the 
secret  staircase. 

Madame  gave  him  one  look.  "Begone!  quick, 
hussy,"  she  cried  to  the  maid  who  was  packing.  The 
scared  girl  fled  from  the  room. 


306  No,  101 

"Well?"  Madame  held  out  her  arms  in  awful 
suspense. 

"Is  the  secret  despatch,"  Andre  panted,  "still  in 
your  keeping?" 

"Yes,  yes,  what  of  it?" 

He  sat  down  and  wiped  his  face.  "  Ah  !  thank 
God!  "  he  muttered. 

Madame  kneeled  down  beside  him.  "  What  is  it?  " 
she  asked,  in  a  caressing  voice,  ' '  does  the  King  want 
it?" 

"  The  King  has  already  left  Versailles;  he  is  now  on 
his  way  to  Rambouillet." 

A  cry  of  despair  was  wrung  from  her.  ' '  Then  I  am 
indeed  ruined,"  she  moaned.  "  You  have  come  to  tell 
me  so.  Ah! "  she  sobbed,  her  head  in  her  hands  on 
his  knees. 

' '  No, ' '  he  raised  her  up.  ' '  I  have  come  to  save  you. ' ' 

She  stared  at  him  stupefied,  incredulous. 

"  Yes,  Madame.  You  must  leave  Versailles  at  once, 
but  you  must  .go  to  Rambouillet." 

"You  are  mad  or  drunk."  She  pushed  him  away 
angrily. 

"No — no."  He  almost  forced  her  into  a  seat  and 
began  to  talk  rapidly  and  with  intense  conviction. 
Madame  listened  at  first  sullenly,  then  gradually  be- 
came interested,  then  excited;  the  lights  began  to  blaze 
in  her  eyes,  the  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks.  She  inter- 
rupted sharply  with  questions.  When  Andre  had 
finished  she  sat  thinking. 


The  Fall  of  the  Dice  307 

"  By  God!  I  will  do  it."  She  had  sprung  to  her 
feet.  She  was  once  again  the  Queen  of  Love,  uncon- 
querable, immortal.  "  I  can  do  it  and  I  will." 

"Leave  the  rest  to  me,  Madame,"  Andre"  said. 

She  put  a  hand  to  his  shoulder.  "And  your  re- 
ward ? ' '  She  was  wooing  him  unconsciously,  as  she 
wooed  all  men. 

"  I  will  ask  for  it  when  I  have  succeeded." 

"  And  you  shall  have  it.     I  promise." 

An  hour  later  the  Palace  heard  with  rapture  that 
Madame  de  Pompadour  had  fled  to  Paris,  in  such  fear 
for  her  life  that  she  had  not  had  time  to  take  even  her 
jewels  with  her.  Her  household  was  to  follow  her  as 
soon  as  possible.  In  the  Queen's  antechamber  the  joy 
was  inexpressible.  A  third  miracle!  a  third  miracle! 
The  grisette  had  vanished.  Ah!  If  she  returned  now 
to  one  of  the  King's  castles  it  would  be  to  the  Bastile, 
not  Versailles. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  THIEF  OF  THE  SECRET  DESPATCH 

WHAT  had  Andre  discovered  ? 

When  he  had  reached  the  stables  he  could  not  find 
Yvonne,  but  at  "The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold," 
whither  he  hurried,  he  was  not  disappointed.  And 
Yvonne  had  news  to  give  him  as  thrilling  as  unex- 
pected. The  Knglish  spy  she  had  learned  was  coming 
to  the  inn  that  very  afternoon  to  meet  a  strange  woman, 
and  the  meeting  was  to  be  kept  a  solemn  secret. 
Yvonne  had  felt  sure  Monseigneur  ought  to  know,  and 
had  ventured  as  far  as  the  Palace  in  search  of  him. 
Andre's  heart  leaped  at  the  chance  that  fate,  which  had 
buffeted  him  so  sorely,  had  now  by  a  miracle  put  in  his 
way.  The  spy  could  be  no  other  than  George  Onslow, 
with  whom  he  had  crossed  swords  in  the  wood  the 
night  before  Fontenoy;  and  the  woman  ?  Would  she 
be  the  flower  girl  of  "The  Gallows  and  the  Three 
Crows,"  the  crystal-gazer,  the  mysterious  "princess," 
whose  dancing  had  first  stirred  his  blood  in  London, 
the  woman  who  had  said  she  loved  him  ?  Or  would  it 
be  some  other  unfortunate,  caught  like  himself  in  the 

308 


Thief  of  the  Secret  Despatch       309 

terrible  toils  of  a  mystery  which  bid  fair  to  be  the  ruin 
of  them  all  ? 

What  did  it  matter  ?  Andr6  was  sure  of  one  thing. 
Could  he  but  hear  what  passed  at  that  meeting  he 
would  be  many  steps  nearer  to  the  solution  of  the  blood- 
stained riddle  of  "  No.  101." 

Perhaps  he  could  yet  save  Madame  de  Pompadour, 
yet  win  Denise,  yet  take  vengeance  on  his  foes.  The 
hand  of  destiny  was  in  this.  With  "  No.  101  "  his  life 
had  as  it  were  begun;  at  each  stage  he  had  been  now 
thwarted,  now  strangely  aided,  by  the  acts  of  the  un- 
known traitor;  with  "No.  101  "  it  was  clearly  fated 
to  end.  Despair,  insatiable  curiosity,  the  blind  impetus 
of  forces  he  could  not  control,  alike  steeled  him  to  make 
the  attempt. 

Yvonne  was  easily  persuaded;  indeed,  she  had 
already  schemed  for  it,  and  with  her  help  he  lay 
concealed  in  the  room  of  meeting  and  awaited  with 
a  beating  pulse  the  arrival  of  the  traitors.  The  spy 
proved  to  be  George  Onslow,  as  he  had  guessed,  and 
Andre  studied  his  able,  sleuth-hound  face,  the  dark 
eyes  of  slumbering  passion,  and  the  sensual  lips,  with 
the  eery  yet  joyous  shiver  of  one  who  feels  that  here 
is  an  opponent  with  whom  reckoning  must  be  made 
before  life  is  over.  The  woman,  however,  was  un- 
known to  him.  She  was  certainly  not  the  crystal- 
gazer.  Nothing  more  unlike  the  black  hair  and  dark 
eyebrows,  the  creamy  skin,  of  that  mysterious  enchan- 
tress could  be  imagined.  For  this  was  a  lady  who 


310  No.  101 

to-day  we  should  say  had  stepped  straight  from  a  pastel 
by  I,atour,  or,  as  Andre  thought,  from  the  Salon  de 
Venus  at  Versailles,  a  girl  with  the  figure  of  Diana  and 
that  indefinable  carriage  and  air  which  only  centuries 
of  high  birth  and  the  company  of  such  can  bestow. 
Denise's  grey  eyes  and  exquisite  pose  of  head  were  not 
more  characteristic  of  the  quality  that  the  noblesse  of 
the  ancien  rlgime  rightly  claimed  as  their  monopoly, 
than  were  the  blue  eyes  and  innocent  insolence  of  the 
stranger.  And  yet  Andre  felt  that  in  the  most  mys- 
terious and  irritating  way  she  reminded  him  of  some 
one.  But  of  whom  ?  Of  whom  ?  And  then  he  almost 
laughed  out  loud.  Of  Yvonne  ! 

They  both  talked  in  English  as  English  was  talked 
in  I^ondon,  without  a  trace  of  a  foreign  accent.  Now  if 
one  thing  was  certain  Yvonne  did  not  know  a  word  of 
English,  for  he  had  tried  her  by  many  pitfalls  in  the 
past  and  she  had  simply  showed  boorish  but  natural 
ignorance.  Nor  could  it  be  the  crystal-gazer,  for  he 
remembered  her  English  was  not  the  English  of  the 
salons.  Once  only  did  they  drop  into  French,  and 
then  Andre  was  more  puzzled  than  ever.  Onslow 
spoke  it  extraordinarily  well,  yet  his  accent  betrayed 
him  at  once  ;  the  girl,  however,  revealed  to  a  noble's 
sensitive  ear  the  idiom  and  tone  so  much  more  difficult 
to  acquire  than  mere  accent  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main. Had  the  Comtesse  heard  that  sentence  she 
would  have  said  it  might  have  been  spoken  by  the 
Duchesse  de  Pontchartrain.  Strange,  but  true. 


Thief  of  the  Secret  Despatch       3  j  i 

Much  of  the  conversation  was  quite  unintelligible. 
There  was  a  reconciliation  to  begin  with,  and  Andr6 
marvelled  at  the  subtle  way  in  which  the  woman 
soothed  the  man's  anger,  and  then  with  enchanting 
nuances  of  provocation,  of  look,  of  gesture,  quietly  re- 
duced him  to  helpless  and  adoring  submission.  And 
George  Onslow  was  not  the  only  man  in  the  room  who 
at  the  end  of  that  half-hour  felt  as  clay  in  her  hands. 
They  talked,  too,  of  incidents,  of  persons,  of  things 
which  to  Andre  were  a  closed  book.  But  the  main  sub- 
stance was  perfectly  clear  and  deliriously  enthralling  to 
the  concealed  hearer.  That  very  night  the  secret  de- 
spatch in  Madame  de  Pompadour's  handwriting,  which 
the  Court  had  tried  to  win  by  murder,  was  to  be  stolen 
from  the  escritoire  in  which  it  still  reposed,  and  in 
which  the  King's  sudden  illness  and  the  ignorance  of 
its  existence  by  all  save  Madame  herself  and  Andr£  had 
permitted  it  to  stay.  Onslow  apparently  had  wormed 
out  the  fact  of  its  existence;  the  woman  now  informed 
him  of  its  hiding-place,  and  together  they  planned  for 
its  theft,  that  it  might  be  used  by  the  English  Govern- 
ment to  blast  and  ruin  the  King,  with  whom  that  Gov- 
ernment was  still  at  war.  It  would  also  ruin  the 
Jacobites,  which  was  not  less  important  in  English 
eyes.  That  it  would  ruin  Madame  de  Pompadour 
'  neither  Onslow  nor  the  woman  seemed  to  consider  nor 
care  about.  Why  should  they  ?  What  were  Madame 
and  the  hatred  of  a  court  to  the  English  or  they  to  her  ? 

But  Andre"  also  learned  many  other  things  that  were 


312  No.  101 

as  interesting.  It  was  George  Onslow  who  had  in- 
formed the  anti-Pompadour  party  of  the  errand  which 
had  led  to  the  attack  on  Andre  himself.  And  Andre 
gathered  that  it  was  with  the  help  of  some  one  at  Ver- 
sailles whose  name  was  not  mentioned,  for  he  was 
always  spoken  of  as  "  L,ui, ' '  that  the  theft  was  to  be 
executed.  A  double-edged  business,  in  fact,  this  plot. 
The  stolen  despatch  would  do  the  work  of  the  English 
Government,  but  it  would  also  do  the  work  of  the 
Court.  When  its  contents  were  made  public  Madame 
would  be  ruined  automatically.  Hence  the  connivance 
of  ' '  lyui ' '  and  his  friends  in  the  scheme. 

The  completeness  of  their  information,  the  cold- 
blooded way  in  which  they  arranged  to  a  nicety  the 
smallest  detail,  appalled  Andre.  They  both  knew  ex- 
actly where  Madame  was  lodged,  how  to  get  there,  and 
how  to  escape,  of  every  fact  concerned  with  the  King's 
illness  and  of  Madame' s  certain  flight,  on  which  the 
success  of  the  plot  hung.  Who  exactly  was  to  be  the 
thief  he  could  not  make  out;  that  apparently  had  al- 
ready been  arranged,  but  George  Onslow  was  to  be  at 
the  palace,  and  he  was  then  to  make  his  way  to  this 
inn,  whence  he  and  his  accomplice  were  to  vanish  their 
own  way  into  the  friendly  slums  of  Paris,  that  would 
shelter  every  crime  committed  against  itself  and  France. 

"  And  the  Chevalier?  "  Onslow  had  asked. 

The  woman  replied  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Have  as  little 
to  do  with  the  Chevalier  as  possible.  He  is  not  to  be 
trusted  in  this  business.  He  is  no  friend  of  mine  and 


Thief  of  the  Secret  Despatch       313 

no  friend  of  yours.  But,"  she  paused,  "he  is  far  too 
much  a  friend  of  De  Nerac." 

At  the  mention  of  his  own  name  Andr6  almost  be- 
trayed his  presence,  because  the  warning  drew  from 
Onslow  a  deep  "  Ah!  "  and  a  look  of  undying  hatred, 
jealousy,  and  fear.  But  what  had  thrilled  him  quite  as 
much  as  the  look  and  speech  itself  was  the  suppressed 
emotion  in  the  speaker's  voice.  He  had  only  heard  a 
woman  speak  like  that  once  in  his  life,  when  he  and 
Denise  had  parted  at  the  foot  of  the  Pompadour's  stairs 
an  hour  or  two  ago  and  he  had  refused  to  let  her  save 
him. 

"Take  care  of  De  Ncrac,"  the  woman  added  slowly, 
"  he  ruined  you  once,  and  if  he  can  he  will  ruin  you 
again.  De  Nerac  is  the  only  man  who  has  beaten  me. 
Nor  am  I  the  only  woman  who  has  found  that  out  to 
her  cost." 

Onslow  thrust  out  his  hand.  "  What  does  that 
say  ?  "  he  demanded  with  a  curious  mixture  of  bravado, 
curiosity,  and  fear. 

She  studied  the  lines  carefully.  "  Before  long  you 
and  he  will  meet,"  she  answered,  "  and  only  one  will 
survive  :  which,"  she  paused,  "  rests  with  God." 

Andre  found  his  sword  coming  slowly  out  of  its 
sheath.  Pah!  Let  the  traitor  wait.  The  woman  was 
right.  Onslow  must  first  do  his  night's  work,  and 
then — and  then — ah! 

Onslow,  too,  had  said  nothing,  but  his  face  was  elo- 
quent of  his  resolve.  She  let  him  kiss  her  fingers,  even 


314  No.  101 

let  them  linger  in  his,  and  her  look  promised  much 
more  of  reward  when  the  task  had  been  successfully 
accomplished.  The  spy  left  the  room  with  the  air 
Andr6  might  have  done,  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  dar- 
ing all  things,  hoping  all  things,  for  a  woman's  sake. 
Bitter  as  Andre  felt  towards  this  cold-blooded  traitress, 
he  wished  so  fair  a  woman  had  not  looked  at  that  sen- 
sual sleuthhound  like  that. 

Once  alone  the  girl  stood  thoughtfully  gazing  into 
space,  and  presently  with  a  shiver  wiped  her  fingers. 
Andre",  lost  in  his  thoughts,  missed  the  refined  scorn 
with  which  she  flung  the  handkerchief  she  had  used  on 
to  the  burning  logs,  as  if  it  was  soiled.  Then  she  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  fire,  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
and  mused.  A  faint  but  long-drawn  sigh  floated  up  to 
the  blackened  rafters.  Andre  started.  Where  was 
he  ?  Lying,  surely,  in  the  damp  grass  on  the  rim  of 
that  grisly  wood  at  Fontenoy,  staring  up  at  a  window 
in  a  charcoal-burner's  cabin,  which  had  been  stealthily 
opened.  For  just  such  a  sigh  had  greeted  him  on  that 
night,  a  sigh  from  a  weary  woman's  heart. 

And  with  an  exultant  throb  in  his  blood  he  felt  that 
at  last  he  was  in  the  presence  of  "  No.  101."  The 
riddle  was  solved  at  last. 

The  woman  stretched  her  arms  as  if  in  pain, — the 
gesture  was  strangely  familiar, —  rose  with  decision, 
and  glided  from  the  room. 

Andre"  waited  a  few  minutes  before  he  cautiously 
made  his  escape.  All  his  doubts  were  gone.  His 


Thief  of  the  Secret  Despatch       3 1 5 

suspicions  of  the  Chevalier  had  been  dispelled  by  the 
traitorous  pair;  if  Yvonne  was  an  accomplice  it  mat- 
tered not;  he  saw  what  must  be  done.  One  more  great 
stroke  and  the  game  which  he  had  been  fighting  for  so 
long  would  be  his.  Yes.  He  would  save  Madame  de 
Pompadour,  take  vengeance  on  his  foes,  and  win  De- 
nise.  Not  least,  the  man  who  had  saved  an  army  of 
France  at  Fontenoy  would  reveal  the  secret  and  de- 
stroy the  traitor  who  had  baffled  all  and  betrayed  the 
destinies  of  his  race. 

And  it  was  with  the  scheme  planned  out  to  a  nicety 
that  he  burst  into  Madame  de  Pompadour's  salon. 

The  Watteau-like  shepherdesses  of  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  in  the  salon  of  Madame  de  Pompadour 
chimed  out  eleven  tinkling  strokes  into  the  darkness — 
how  few  of  us  who  have  stood  to-day  in  that  dis- 
mantled room  have  succeeded  in  hearing  even  the 
echoes  of  what  those  bare  walls  could  tell  of  the  true 
history  of  France,  the  history  that  can  never  be  un- 
earthed by  the  Ecole  des  Chartes.  Just  as  the  chimes 
died  away  Andre"  climbed  noiselessly  up  the  secret  stair, 
and  crouched  with  drawn  sword  and  pistol  cocked  be- 
hind the  curtain,  a  corner  of  which  he  pulled  back  far 
enough  to  give  a  clear  glimpse  into  the  room.  It  was 
the  third  time  since  Madame  had  fled  that  he  had,  thief- 
like,  lurked  in  that  hiding-place,  and,  as  before,  all 
was  ghastly  still.  Two  or  three  of  Madame's  servants 
had  followed  her  flight;  the  rest,  he  was  aware,  had  pro- 
claimed their  allegiance  to  the  Court.  The  powerful 


316  No.  101 

favourite  who  had  dismissed  a  minister  was  ruined, 
and  none  now  more  noisily  swore  to  their  hatred  of  her 
than  the  men  and  women  who  had  thronged  her  toilette 
or  taken  her  pay. 

In  the  dim  light  Andre  could  make  out  the  half- 
packed  trunks,  the  litter  of  disorder,  so  eloquent  of 
their  owner's  disgrace.  How  were  the  mighty  fallen. 
Here  indeed  was  a  truer  text  for  priest  and  preacher 
than  the  sins  of  the  woman  who  had  not  been  the  first 
to  grace  these  silent  apartments,  an  accomplice  in  the 
passions  of  a  King  of  France.  The  air  to-night  was 
thick  with  ghostly  memories  of  other  women,  not  less 
fair  and  frail,  to  whose  inheritance  of  soiled  supremacy 
the  Marquise  de  Pompadour  had  succeeded.  And 
there,  gleaming  in  a  faint  ray,  shone  the  escritoire 
which  contained  the  despatch.  To  complete  her  mas- 
tery of  the  master  of  France,  Madame  had  written  it 
with  her  own  hand  —  had,  by  doing  so,  her  enemies 
hoped,  signed  her  own  death-warrant.  The  King's 
secret.  Little  did  Andre  know,  as  he  waited,  that 
the  true  story  of  Louis's  incredible  and  persistent  de- 
termination to  pursue  his  own  tortuous  policy,  to  revel 
in  thwarting  and  intriguing  against  his  own  ministers 
— at  once  a  disease,  a  passion,  and  a  pastime  in  that 
enigma  of  kings — was  in  all  its  labyrinthine  details  re- 
served to  be  the  discovery  of  a  noble  a  century  hence, 
and  to  be  read  in  a  Republican  France,  a  France  that 
had  done  with  kings,  that  made  Versailles  a  public 
picture  gallery,  a  France  that  had  seen  the  victorious 


Thief  of  the  Secret  Despatch       3 1 7 

legions  of  Germany  offer  an  imperial  crown  to  the  de- 
scendant of  the  parvenu  Prussian  ally  of  Louis  in  the 
Fontenoy  campaign  in  yonder  Galerie  des  Glaces  of 
the  Roi  Soleil. 

Andre  shivered.  He  was  thinking  only  of  "  No. 
101."  Could  that  girl  of  his  own  race,  if  ever  woman 
was,  really  be  the  traitor  ?  And  if  she  was,  by  what 
temptation  of  the  devil  had  she  embarked  on  her  awful 
career?  To-night  she  would  be  a  prisoner;  she  was 
doomed  to  die,  but  would  they  ever  know  her  secret — 
the  real  secret  of ' '  No.  101  "  ?  Punish  her  they  could, 
but  the  secret,  the  real  secret,  was  beyond  their  power. 
Andre  clenched  his  hands.  She  would  baffle  them 
after  all.  It  was  the  secret  that  fascinated  him,  and 
that  was  surely  destined  to  perish  with  her  in  a  felon's 
grave.  "  No.  101 "  would  be  like  the  man  in  the  iron 
mask — unknown  and  unknowable — a  perpetual  puzzle 
to  the  generations  to  come.  Torturing  thought. 

A  mouse  squeaked  across  the  floor,  the  boards 
creaked.  Andre  recalled  with  a  curious  thrill  the 
grisly  warning  that  all  who  had  ever  seen  the  face  of 
"  No.  101  "  had  perished.  He  recalled  the  death  of 
Captain  Statham,  of  others.  Was  he,  after  all,  to  share 
the  same  fate  ?  In  this  deathly  quiet  he  felt  his  blood 
go  cold,  his  courage  ooze  and  ebb.  A  longing  to  crawl 
away  began  to  master  him. 

Brave  man  though  he  was,  he  would  have  obeyed  it, 
when  a  rustle  on  the  public  stairs  brought  him  with  a 
swift  spring  to  his  feet.  For  that  was  the  rustle  of  a 


318  No.  101 

woman's  skirt.  The  door  was  opening.  The  rustle 
again,  and  a  gleam  of  light  from  a  lamp.  A  woman, 
by  God!  the  thief  was  a  woman.  The  woman! 

Yes.  The  girl  at  the  inn  surely,  for  this  was  a  tall 
young  woman  who  walked  straight  forward  to  the 
escritoire,  a  thief  who  knew  no  fear,  calmly  determined 
to  do  her  business  without  flinching.  Andre  wavered 
as  he  had  in  the  charcoal-burner's  cabin.  Should  he 
arrest  her  there  and  then  or  wait  ?  Yes,  no  ?  Yes, 
wait.  She  must  be  caught  red-handed  in  the  act  that 
he  might  win  his  love. 

Suddenly  the  lingering  echo  of  a  trumpet  floated  up 
into  the  darkness  from  the  Cour  des  Princes.  Andre 
started.  Again  that  silvery  note.  The  trumpets — the 
silver  trumpets— of  the  Chevau-16gers  de  la  Garde! 
Was  he  dreaming?  Was  he  at  Fontenoy?  No,  no. 
The  King's  escort,  ha!  the  King  had  returned.  The 
great  coup  had  succeeded.  The  game  was  his  just  as 
he  had  planned.  Fortune,  superbly  beneficent,  had 
given  him  all.  And  then  he  clutched  at  the  curtain, 
sick,  faint,  gasping.  For  at  the  second  trumpet  note 
the  woman  had  turned  to  listen,  the  light  fell  on  her 
face — Denise  !  The  thief  was  Denise  ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  CHEVAUER  MAKES  HIS  LAST  APPEARANCE 

DENISE  !  yes,  it  was  Denise  ! 

The  sweat  dripped  off  Andrd's  face  in  the  agony  of 
that  moment.  His  fingers,  his  brain,  his  body,  had 
turned  numb.  Think,  he  could  not.  He  was  only 
conscious  of  one  thought,  that  burned  red-hot.  For- 
tune, superbly  maleficent,  had  kept  her  most  devilish 
revenge  and  punishment  to  the  last.  Denise  must  be 
ruined  by  the  man  who  loved  her,  for  Louis,  persuaded 
to  return  by  Madame  de  Pompadour  at  the  instigation 
of  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac,  would  be  in  this  room  in  a 
few  minutes.  This,  and  not  the  successful  theft  of  the 
despatch,  was  the  vengeance  of  "  No.  101." 

Fascinated  by  fear,  Andre,  tongue-tied,  watched 
Denise  go  straight  up  to  the  escritoire,  insert  a  key, 
open  the  drawer.  And  then  love  swept  his  horror 
away,  unloosed  the  paralysis  that  held  him  a  prisoner, 
and  told  him  what  to  do.  Denise  could  yet  be  saved  by 
instant  flight.  True,  his  scheme  had  failed;  the  wrath 
of  Madame  de  Pompadour  and  the  King  whom  she  had 
deceived  would  fall  on  him;  Madame  would  herself 

319 


320  No.  101 

probably  be  ruined.  What  did  it  matter,  so  that  he 
rescued  Deuise  from  the  awful  peril,  the  wiles  which 
"  No.  101  "  had  with  such  fiendish  completeness  laid 
for  her?  For  that  it  was  "  No.  loi's"  diabolical  plan 
he  had  no  doubt  now.  Yvonne  had  gulled  and  be- 
trayed him,  as  from  the  first. 

But  just  as  he  wrenched  the  curtain  aside  and  sprang 
into  the  room  with  a  cry  of  ' '  Denise  ! ' '  she  had  tottered 
back  with  a  low  exclamation  of  horror. 

"Denise!" 

The  candle  fell  from  her  hand.  In  the  darkness 
he  heard  her  sob.  "Gone,"  she  muttered  feebly. 
"Gone!" 

"  Quick,  the  King  is  coming!  For  God's  sake,  fly. 
There  is  the  key — the  secret  staircase.  I  will — can — 
explain  later." 

He  hurried  her  towards  the  doorway  with  a  terrible 
yet  tender  energy  of  love." 

"  Andre,"  she  cried,  "  Andre,  it  is  gone." 

"  Oh,  fly;  fly,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

"But  it  is  gone  —  the  secret  despatch;  it  is  not 
there — stolen  !  "  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper. 
She  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder  with  fear  and 
horror. 

The  words  acted  like  a  galvanic  shock.  Gone — 
stolen  already!  This  was  more — much  more — than  he 
had  dreamed  of.  The  full  meaning  of  the  situation  was 
revealed  and  it  stunned  him  into  action.  In  a  second 
he  had  the  candle  alight,  and,  mastering  the  faintness 


The  Chevalier's  Last  Appearance    321 

that  gripped  him,  dashed  at  the  escritoire.  It  was  per- 
fectly empty.  The  secret  despatch  was  not  in  it.  An- 
other thief  had  already  secured  it—"  No.  101 "!  He 
put  the  candle  very  slowly  down  on  the  table  and 
turned  to  Denise,  who  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  white  to  the  lips. 

Andre  laughed,  as  men  will  laugh  when  tears  and 
passion  are  futile.  That  laugh  at  his  own  outwitting 
by  a  girl  and  her  English  accomplice  rang  through  the 
room.  The  traitors  had  been  before  him.  The  secret 
despatch  was  already  in  the  hands  of  the  King's  ene- 
mies, of  Madame  de  Pompadour's  enemies,  of  his.  He 
and  she  were  ruined.  Nothing  could  save  them  now. 
In  a  few  hours  the  English  Government  could  publish 
the  truth,  the  Court  could  proclaim  Madame  by  the 
evidence  of  her  own  hand  an  intriguer  against  the 
King,  and  Denise  and  he  would  be  found  here  in 
the  darkness  with  an  empty  escritoire  by  Louis  XV. 
and  Madame  de  Pompadour,  to  whom  its  contents  were 
a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Hopeless  to  struggle  now. 
Love  had  inspired  a  plan,  but  fate  was  stronger  than 
love.  Madame  de  Pompadour  must  come,  and  hear 
what  had  happened,  from  his  lips.  He  had  ruined 
her,  ruined  himself,  ruined  Denise.  Louis  alone  could 
lie.  Louis  by  a  lie  alone  would  escape.  Andre"  had 
matched  himself,  in  his  pride,  against  "No.  101,"  a 
girl,  and  this  was  the  result. 

"  They  told  me,"  Denise  began,  "  it  was  here.  We 
threw  with  dice  as  to  who  should  find  it.  We  were 


322  No.  ioi 

determined  to  punish  and  destroy  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour. I  took  my  chance,  and " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted  impatiently,  for  he  had 
already  divined  Denise' s  motives. 

"  To  save  you  before,"  Denise  went  on,  "  I  let  her 
escape  and  sinned  against  my  conscience,  for  that 
woman  polluted  Versailles,  your  life  and  mine.  I  owed 
reparation;  this  was  to  be  my  reparation.  You  were 
ruined,  Andr6,  dismissed,  disgraced.  I  cared  no 
longer  for  life — for  anything.  You  I  could  not  save, 
but  her  I  could  punish,  for  she  had  broken  my  heart 
and  shattered  your  career  in  her  selfishness.  That  is 
why  I  came — willingly,  gladly.  It  was  a  duty  to  my 
cause — to  myself." 

Andr6  knew  nothing  of  the  scheme  of  Mont  Rouge, 
of  the  loaded  dice  whereby  the  love  of  a  wicked  woman, 
the  Comtesse  des  Forges,  turned  to  hatred,  and  a  de- 
feated rival's  vengeance,  had  foisted  on  Denise  the  task 
of  braving  alone  the  perils  and  the  disgrace  and  of  com- 
pleting the  plot  of  the  Court;  but  what  he  did  know 
showed  him  that  the  Court,  too,  like  himself,  had  been 
the  victims  of  the  man  and  the  woman  he  had  spied  on 
at  the  inn.  But,  unlike  himself,  the  Court  would  gain 
its  vengeance. 

"  I  performed  a  duty,"  Denise  was  saying,  "and  in- 
stead, Andre",  I  have  ruined  you.  Your  enemies  have 
stolen  the  despatch." 

Voices  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  No  time  for  ex- 
planation now.  But,  thank  God !  Denise  did  not  know 


The  Chevalier's  Last  Appearance  323 

the  truth  nor  of  Madame  de  Pompadour's  and  the 
King's  return.  One  glance  at  the  agony  in  her  face, 
the  agony  of  a  woman  who  loved,  and  Andr6  was 
again  inspired  to  a  noble  decision. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  said  with  perfect  calmness. 
"  I  was  here  to  watch,  I  confess,  in  the  interests  of  His 
Majesty;  we  had  hoped  to  catch  quite  another  person, 
but  it  is  you,  Denise,  whom  my  foes  have  lured  into 
the  trap — our  trap.  I  ask  you  for  my  sake  to  leave 
me  to  explain  all  to  Madame.  Sweetheart" — he  was 
pleading  now  as  he  had  never  pleaded  to  any  woman 
before — "  sweetheart,  do  not  inflict  on  me  the  pain  of 
giving  you  into  the  hands  of  Madame.  You  will  not; 
you  cannot  do  it." 

The  glorious  lie,  aided  by  the  power  of  his  love  over 
her,  prevailed.  Denise  took  his  key,  and  just  in  time 
Andre  had  drawn  the  curtain  when  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour flung  the  door  open.  Face  and  figure  were  all 
aglow  with  the  triumphant  victory  she  had  won.  She 
had  returned  to  place  her  heel  on  the  necks  of 
the  defeated,  to  drink  the  cup  of  vengeance  to  the 
dregs. 

Andre  very  quietly  kissed  her  hands  and  removed 
her  cloak.  The  peace  and  happiness  in  his  eyes,  his 
self-sacrifice  had  already  brought  him,  showed  that 
love  had  by  its  own  divine  alchemy  created  for  him  a 
new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  He  could  face  the 
future  with  a  tranquil  confidence  and  bliss  that  sur- 
prised himself. 


324  No.  101 

"Mon  cher,"  Madame  cried,  "  I — no,  you — have  won. 
The  King  is  mine.  I  shall  never  lose  him  now."  Her 
eyes  ran  over  the  room — fell  on  the  open  escritoire. 
"  Well,  you  have  the  traitor  ?  " 

"No,  Madame." 

"What?  They  did  not  dare?"  She  laughed.  "No 
matter.  The  King  is  mine. " 

"  The  paper  has  been  stolen,"  he  said  quietly,  "  and 
the  thief  has  escaped." 

Madame  put  her  hand  on  her  breast,  tottered  back  a 
step  or  two.  Her  radiant  eyes  grew  cold.  Incredulity 
and  fear  made  her  an  old  woman.  ' '  Stolen  ?  escaped  ? 
Do  you  mean ? ' ' 

' '  They  fooled  me.  The  hour  was  midnight,  as  I 
told  you.  I  have  been  here  three  times  waiting;  the 
thief  never  came,  but  the  paper  is  gone." 

The  meaning  of  his  words  trickled  into  her  mind. 
With  a  cry  of  rage  she  sprang  at  the  escritoire  and 
turned  it  upside  down.  Then  she  hurled  it  into  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  wheeled  on  Andre.  "  Ah,  mis- 
Arable,  coquin,  Idckef"  the  hot,  incoherent  words  tum- 
bled over  each  other.  "  You  have  failed.  It  is  me 
you  have  fooled,  betrayed.  Ah,  traitor,  you  are  my 
foe;  gone,  Seigneur  Jesu,  gone!  Stolen;  then  I  am 
ruined;  ruined;  after  all  I  have  done."  She  burst  into 
tears,  racked  by  rage,  terror,  despair. 
y"I  am  no  traitor." 

"  Bah!  I  have  done  with  you."  She  paced  up  and 
down.  "Ah!  that  accursed  'No.  101,'  accursed;  what 


The  Chevalier's  Last  Appearance  325 

can  I  do?  Ruined,  ruined!"  she  sank  into  a  chair 
with  a  low  moan. 

Andr6  watched  the  candle-light  flicker  on  her  hair 
and  breast,  on  the  shimmering  folds  of  the  beautiful 
dress  she  had  so  unerringly  selected  to  aid  in  recon- 
quering I/>uis.  But  a  woman's  beauty,  genius,  and 
passion,  and  ambition  had  fought  in  vain,  for  "  No. 
101 "  was  stronger  than  all  of  these. 

Suddenly  she  rose  with  an  exclamation  of  vindictive 
and  unholy  exultation.  She  had  picked  a  jewelled 
pendant  from  the  floor.  "Ha!"  she  cried,  "here  is 
proof  of  the  thief  you  could  not  catch.  Mademoiselle 
Denise  has  been  here;  that  jewel  is  hers  and  it  fell  by 
the  escritoire  table;  it  is  not  '  No.  101 '  who  has  stolen 
the  despatch,  it  is  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Se"jour." 

Andre"  had  turned  deadly  pale.  He  stared  in  im- 
potent silence.  Yes,  the  jewel  was  Denise' s;  on  the 
back  he  knew  was  a  fatal  D.  And  it  was  a  pendant 
that  he  himself,  in  a  thrice  happy  hour,  had  given  her. 

"  The  King's  honour,"  Madame  said  in  her  cruelly 
cold  voice,  "  is  at  stake  in  that  despatch.  And  he  will 
not  spare  the  thief  even  if  she  were  of  the  blood-royal. 
Nor  will  I.  This  is  proof  enough  for  me;  I  promise 
you  it  will  also  be  proof  enough  for  His  Majesty.  I 
have  here  a  lettre  de  cachet  which  the  King  gave  me, 
already  signed.  But  the  name  is  not  filled  in.  That 
was  to  be  done  to-night  with  the  thief  s  name.  And 
filled  in  I  swear  it  shall  be.  For  unless  the  secret  de- 
spatch is  in  my  hands  by  to-morrow  morning  at  ten 


326  No.  101 

o'clock  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  shall  go  to  the 
Bastile." 

"Madame!" 

"You  cannot  deceive  me.  You  are  shielding  her. 
It  is  in  your  face.  She  is  the  thief.  I  repeat,  to-mor- 
row at  ten  —  not  one  minute  longer,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  our  friendship  I  would  have  sent  her  there 
to-night." 

Andr6  was  still  silent,  striving  to  think,  be  calm.  If 
Denise  were  questioned  she  was  ruined.  Denise  could 
not  tell  a  lie.  Nor  could  she  save  her  lover  now  by  a 
lie.  "You  can  settle  it,"  Madame  went  on  in  her  icy 
anger,  "with  Mademoiselle.  I  care  not  how  or  for 
what  she  gives  way.  Lovers'  confessions  can  be 
sweet,  they  say.  But  my  life,  my  honour,  my  future, 
my  dreams,  my  all,  are  at  stake.  Think  you  I  will 
allow  a  girl,  a  noble,  a  woman  who  has  insulted 
me,  conspired  against  me,  a  thief  of  state  secrets,  to 
defeat  me — me  !  Then  you  do  not  know  the  woman 
Antoinette  de  Pompadour." 

And  Andre  confessed  to  himself  that  till  that  moment 
he  did  not. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "  the  Marquise  de 
Beau  Sejour  has  not  got  the  despatch,  nor  did  she  steal 
it.  However,  I  do  not  choose  to  discuss  that  now.  I 
shall  return  to  this  room  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow.  But 
if  I  have  the  despatch  by  then  I  do  not  promise  to  give 
it  back  to  you. ' '  Madame  had  turned  her  back  on  him  ; 
she  wheeled  in  a  flash.  "  That  will  depend  on  some 


The  Chevalier's  Last  Appearance  327 

other  things.  But,"  lie  bowed,  "  if  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour  imagines  that  she  can  call  gentlemen 
cowards  and  scoundrels  with  impunity,  or  that  she  can 
so  easily  ruin  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour,  she  does 
not  know  me — me,  the  man  Andre  de  Nerac." 

And  there  he  left  her  stunned  into  a  fearful  silence. 
He  was  about  to  pass,  he  was  aware,  a  night  of  de- 
spairing, futile  search,  but  it  would  not  be  such  a  pro- 
longed agony  of  torture  as  this  woman,  amidst  the 
litter  of  her  humiliation,  would  endure.  One  last 
chance  remained.  The  girl  he  called  "  No.  101  "  and 
George  Onslow  had  arranged  to  meet  at  midnight  at 
"The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold."  That  agree- 
ment might  not  prove  as  false  as  other  things  he  had 
overheard  and  been  tricked  into  believing.  If  they  were 
there  they  would  not  leave  the  inn  alive,  for  Andre", 
too,  had  begun  to  divine  the  full  meaning  of  this  hellish 
plot.  His  enemies  at  Court  had  planned  with  the 
English  traitors  that  they  might  ruin  him  and  Denise 
likewise.  To-morrow  he  would  reckon  with  the  Due 
de  Pontchartrain,  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge,  and  the 
Comtesse  des  Forges,  as  well  as  with  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour, but  to-night  he  had  an  account  to  settle  with 
"  No.  101,"  with  George  Onslow,  with  the  Chevalier 
de  St.  Amant,  with  Yvonne. 

Only  pausing  to  scribble  a  couple  of  orders,  which 
went  off  to  Paris  by  mounted  couriers,  warned  that 
their  royal  master  would  brook  of  no  delay,  he  gathered 
a  dozen  of  his  guards  and  spurred  his  way  to  "  The 


328  No.  101 

Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold."  And  as  he  galloped  he 
knew  that  in  a  couple  of  hours  the  police  of  Paris  would 
be  sweeping  every  slum,  ransacking  every  cabaret  and 
tavern,  hunting  down  every  suspect,  and  bribing  for 
information  every  fille  de  joie  from  the  Faubourg  St. 
Antoine  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  from  the  Bar- 
rier of  the  H6pital  St.  L/ouis  to  the  Barriers  of  I^es 
Gobelins,  and  the  Palais  Bourbon.  And  it  was  Denise 
that  he  must  save.  Love — not  the  sham  idol  of  gal- 
lantry— but  love  can  do  things  that  neither  the  fear  of 
death  nor  of  hell  can. 

The  inn  was  plunged  in  darkness.  Not  a  light  to 
be  spied  anywhere.  Andre"  set  his  guards  around  it 
and  began  to  explore  systematically.  The  outhouses 
were  empty  save  for  Yvonne's  sleek  cow  contentedly 
chewing  the  cud.  Not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  Torch  in 
hand  he  strode  into  the  parlour  where  he  had  been  so 
successfully  befoiled.  There  were  the  chairs,  the 
screen,  the  tables. 

Ha!  on  the  centre  table  a  piece  of  paper  quite  large. 
No  writing  on  it,  but  instead  a  mocking  sign,  two 
crossed  daggers  roughly  drawn  in  red  and  the  mystic 
number: 


Blood,  human  blood!     Blood  still  fresh  and  scarcely 
dried.     They  had  been  here,  the  traitors;  they  had  not 


The  Chevalier's  Last  Appearance  329 

left  long,  for  blood  does  not  take  long  to  dry,  and  they 
had  determined  to  flout  their  dupe  with  this  ghastly 
mummery.  To  Paris!  to  Paris!  They  could  still  be 
caught  before  the  October  dawn  was  reddening  the 
roofs  of  the  Conciergerie  and  the  battlements  of  the 
Bastile. 

Andre  wheeled  with  a  hoarse  command,  and  then 
something,  what  he  could  not  say,  a  swift  intuition  or 
feeling,  arrested  him  as  he  left  the  room.  He  hurled 
the  screen  aside.  Ah!  Ah!  A  cry  of  horror  broke 
from  him. 

A  man  was  lying  behind  it,  face  downwards,  his 
blood  staining  the  mouse-gnawed  boards.  The  man 
was  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  CARREFOUR  DE  ST.  ANTOINE  NO.  3 

ANDRIJ  saw  in  a  moment  from  the  Chevalier's  posi- 
tion as  he  lay  face  downwards  on  the  bare  boards  what 
had  happened.  The  unhappy  boy  had  been  stabbed 
from  behind;  and  he  bore  plain  signs  of  having  been 
searched  after  he  had  been  stabbed,  for  his  clothes  were 
rumpled,  his  boots  wrenched  off,  his  stockings  ripped 
up,  his  shirt  torn  open.  The  searcher  had  then  calmly 
left  him  to  bleed  to  death.  Had  the  Chevalier  been  the 
robber  of  the  escritoire  ?  If  so  had  the  secret  despatch 
been  taken  from  him  and  the  second  thief  escaped  with 
it  ?  Who  could  say  ? 

Andre  kneeled  down  and  gently  lifted  the  prostrate 
body  on  to  the  sofa. 

"  Go,  two  of  you,  at  once  to  Versailles,"  he  cried  to 
his  men,  "  and  bring  a  doctor.  Ride  for  your  lives." 

He  returned  to  the  couch,  but  as  he  did  so  his  boot 
kicked  against  something  that  jingled.  An  Eng- 
lish guinea!  George  Onslow  had  been  here,  then. 
Andre  recognised  with  the  intuition  that  is  stronger 
than  proof  that  Onslow  was  the  second  thief,  as 

330 


Carrefour  de  St.  Antoine  331 

well  as  the  man  who  had  stabbed  the  Chevalier  in 
the  back. 

The  Chevalier  was  not  dead!  A  low  moan  from 
the  couch  had  echoed  through  the  room,  and  Andre 
poured  brandy  down  his  throat,  stanched  the  wound, 
and  waited  with  feverish  passion,  for  the  Chevalier's 
lips  were  moving.  His  eyes  opened — he  saw  who  it 
was  at  his  side. 

"Marie,"  came  the  faint  words,  "Marie — the 
Carrefour — his  head  fell  back. 

Andre"  waited,  overwhelmed  by  a  wave  of  passion, 
repentance,  remorse.  The  Chevalier  was  no  foe — he 
was  trying  to  tell  him  something,  something  of  vital 
importance  to  both  of  them;  would  he  have  the  strength 
to  do  it  ?  Denise's  and  his  own  fate  hung  on  that. 

"  Marie,"  trickled  the  feeble  words,  "  Carrefour  de 
St.  Antoine  No.  3 — "  again  he  swooned,  but  Andre"  had 
learned  almost  enough.  It  was  time  to  leave  him, 
cruel  as  it  seemed,  for  every  half  hour  now  would  be 
precious. 

"  Marie — paper — save  her — Onslow,"  the  Chevalier 
was  making  a  great  effort;  Andre  guessed  the  rest. 
But  the  Chevalier's  hand  moved  pleadingly.  He  was 
asking  for  a  promise— "save  her,"  he  repeated  and  his 
lips  ceased  to  move. 

Andre"  took  the  young  man's  hand.  He  scarcely 
knew  what  he  was  saying,  he  knew  not  who  Marie  was, 
but  in  the  presence  of  death,  death  inflicted  by  that 
dastard  stab  in  the  back,  a  man  who  was  inspired  by 


332  No.  101 

love  might  well  feel  a  great  pity,  the  desire  to  forgive 
and  atone. 

"  I  promise,"  he  whispered.     "  I  promise." 

Moved  by  the  beautiful  peace  that  those  two  words 
brought  into  the  young  man's  face,  Andre  kneeled  be- 
side him.  No  doctor  could  save  the  Chevalier  de  St. 
Atnant  now,  but  he,  too,  had  loved  Denise;  he,  too, 
had  charged  by  the  side  of  the  Chevau-legers  de  la 
Garde  at  Fontenoy.  And  him  at  least  an  assassin's 
dagger  had  delivered  from  the  justice  of  the  King  of 
France  and  of  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

Sceptic  as  he  was,  Andre  whispered  a  brief  prayer, 
and,  as  Denise  would  have  wished  him  to  do,  rever- 
ently made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  commending  his  soul 
to  the  God  whose  eyes  are  upon  the  truth,  and  whose 
mercy  is  infinite. 

As  he  stepped  outside,  into  that  clearing  where 
Yvonne  had  saved  his  own  life,  a  sharp  altercation  ap- 
parently in  the  outhouses  at  the  back  sent  him  hurry- 
ing thither. 

"  Curse  you,  let  me  go,  scum!  "  were  the  words  he 
heard,  followed  by  a  sharp  scuffle. 

"Good-evening,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  Andre  said, 
with  icy  sarcasm,  "  but  the  scum  will  not  let  you  go." 

Mont  Rouge's  livid  face  paled  at  his  rival's  voice. 
De  Nerac  least  of  all  men  had  he  expected  to  discover 
at  "  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold." 

4 '  You  will  keep  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge 
a  prisoner,"  Andr£  commanded  the  guards  who  had 


Carrefour  de  St.  Antoiue  333 

caught  the  Count,  "until  I  return,  and  you  will  an- 
swer with  your  heads  for  his  safety." 

"  By  what  right — "  Mont  Rouge  began,  savagely. 

"That,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  Andre"  interrupted, 
politely,  "you  will  learn  when  it  suits  me.  But  to- 
morrow His  Majesty  will  require  to  know  by  what 
right  an  exiled  gentleman  is  still  at  Versailles,"  he 
paused,  "and  why  a  noble  of  France  trades  under  the 
title  of  'L,ui '  with  traitors  in  the  pay  of  the  English 
Government." 

It  was  a  bold  thrust,  but  it  went  home.  The 
mingled  fear  and  rage  in  Mont  Rouge's  cynical  eyes 
revealed  the  correctness  of  Andre's  guess. 

"His  Majesty,"  Andre"  continued,  "you  will  be  in- 
terested to  know,  has  returned  to  Versailles  to  take 
summary  vengeance  on  all  traitors." 

And  as  he  galloped  away  he  knew  that  Mont  Rouge 
was  unaware  of  I/ouis's  unexpected  return.  That 
Mont  Rouge  was  at  the  inn  at  all  showed  that  Onslow 
and  his  accomplice  had  been  expected  to  share  the  re- 
sults of  their  theft  with  the  noble  conspirators  against 
Madame  de  Pompadour. 

No.  3  in  the  deserted  Carrefour  de  St.  Antoine  was 
the  house  where  Onslow  had  made  love  before,  and  in 
that  very  room,  with  its  barred  shutters  and  tightly 
drawn  curtains,  with  its  thick  carpets  into  which  the 
foot  noiselessly  sank,  and  its  blazing  candles,  the  woman 
whom  Andre"  had  spied  on  at  "The  Cock  with  the 


334 

Spurs  of  Gold ' '  now  sat  calmly  destroying  papers. 
Every  now  and  then  she  stopped  to  listen  attend vety; 
twice  at  least  she  opened  the  door  and  peered  out,  but 
there  was  no  one,  and  she  placidly  resumed  her  task. 

When  all  the  papers  were  destroyed  she  surveyed 
herself  in  the  glass  and  smiled  sadly.  To-night  her 
jewels  and  her  patrician  virginal  beauty  gave  her  no 
pleasure,  yet  she  was  dressed  with  consummate  taste 
and  infinite  care,  as  though  she  were  going  to  a  ball 
in  the  Galerie  des  Glaces. 

The  clock  struck  half-past  two.  She  moved  behind 
the  curtains  and  unbarred  the  shutters,  carefully  pin- 
ing them  back,  thus  leaving  the  balcony  not  more  than 
ten  feet  up  from  the  street  quite  clear.  Then  she  blew 
out  all  the  candles  but  two  and  waited  patiently. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  This  time  when  she  rose  she 
carefully  locked  both  side  doors  leading  off  the  salon, 
and  when  she  returned  from  the  passage  she  was  ac- 
companied by  Onslow.  Unobserved,  she  locked  that 
door,  too.  There  was  no  exit  now  from  the  room  save 
by  the  balcony. 

Onslow' s  sleuth-hound  features  wore  a  careworn 
look,  the  look  of  the  hunted  man;  his  cloak  and  boots 
were  splashed  with  mud;  he  was  breathing  quickly, 
for  he  had  ridden  hard. 

"  I  was  expecting  you,"  she  surprised  him  by  saying 
quietly.  ' '  Why  did  you  not  bring  the  Chevalier  with 
you?" 

"  The  Chevalier  was  obliged  to  stay  at  the  inn,"  was 


Carrefour  de  St.  Antoine  335 

the  grim  reply.  "You  forget '  L,ui,'  "  lie  added  hastily, 
for  her  penetrating  eyes  were  searching  his  face. 
"  Some  one  had  to  deal  with  the  fool,  and,"  with  a 
laugh,  "  he  will  be  astonished,  will  be  '  L,ui.'  " 

"  He  will,"  she  said  with  such  emphasis  that  Onslow 
gave  a  guilty  start.  "  %ui'  I  expect  at  this  moment 
is  in  the  hands  of  your  friend  and  mine,  the  Vicomte  de 
Nerac." 

The  oath  that  came  from  Onslow' s  lips  as  he  whipped 
out  a  pistol,  the  look  that  accompanied  it,  were  more 
eloquent  than  an  hour's  speech. 

' '  De  Nerac,  I  warned  you,  was  an  abler  head  than 
yours,  my  friend;  he  was  concealed  in  the  room  when 
you  and  I  arranged  our  little  plan." 

"  What?  "     Onslow  sat  down  in  consternation. 

"  It  is  as  I  say.  Yvonne,  the  wench,  was  his  accom- 
plice. She  fooled  you,  that  peasant  girl;  that  is  why 
our  programme  was  so  suddenly  altered." 

She  walked  away  with  her  swinging,  graceful  car- 
riage of  head  and  body.  Had  Onslow  seen  her  eyes  at 
that  moment  it  would  not  have  relieved  the  fears  that 
haunted  his  face.  But  when  she  turned  again  she  was 
smiling  seductively. 

"  You  want  the  paper,"  she  said.  "  Here  it  is.  I 
keep  my  word,  you  see. ' '  She  quietly  handed  him  the 
secret  despatch  and  he  pounced  on  it  as  a  hungry  vul- 
ture pounces  on  carrion. 

"  But  how  did  you  get  it  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  was  at  the  Palace  when  the  Chevalier  stole  it. 


336  No.  101 

Stealing  it  was  not  an  easy  task,  for  the  Vicomte  de 
Ne*rac  was  on  the  watch,  but  when  I  had  got  it  I  came 
straight  here.  The  Chevalier  went  back  to  the  inn. 
It  would  have  been  better,"  she  added  carelessly, 
watching  him  closely,  "  if  he,  too,  had  come  here." 

"Perhaps." 

The  girl  stooped  and  fastened  her  shoe,  for  she  knew 
that  she  could  not  always  control  her  eyes.  The  shoe 
fastened  she  was  smiling  again  at  Onslow's  trembling 
fingers. 

"  There  is  blood  upon  your  boot,"  she  remarked 
pleasantly,  "you  have  been  stepping  in  blood.  Whose, 
I  wonder  ? ' '  She  moved  towards  the  curtain,  and 
listened  attentively,  while  she  affected  to  pull  the  string. 

"  So  De  Nerac  knew  of  the  plan  ?  "  Onslow  growled 
out.  "  That  explains  a  good  deal,  but  not  all." 

"  You  are  right.  If  De  Ne*rac  meets  the  Chevalier 
at  the  inn  he  may  know  more,"  was  the  calm  response. 
She  had  begun  to  take  off  her  jewels  and  was  packing 
them  one  by  one  into  a  leather  case. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  This.  The  game  is  up  for  you,  my  friend,  and  for 
me.  There  will  be  no  more  richly  paid  treachery  for 
some  time  in  our  lives.  The  Chevalier  loves  me,  loves 
me  as  his  own  soul.  To  save  me  he  will  probably  be- 
tray what  De  Nerac  does  not  already  know ' ' 

Onslow  had  risen.  He  buttoned  up  his  coat  over  the 
despatch,  while  his  eyes  glowed  with  the  unholy  lust 
that  was  corroding  his  mind  and  body. 


Carrefour  de  St  Antoine  337 

"  And,"  she  continued,  "  the  Chevalier  knows  that 
I  love  him,  love  him  more  dearly  than  any  man.  I 
shall  be  grateful  to  his  love  if  it  saves  him  and  saves 
me,  as  I  think  it  will.  But  it  cannot  save  you,  I  fear." 

' '  Ah ! ' '  his  breath  came  quick.  His  eyes  went 
round  and  round  like  those  of  a  beast  tracked  by  dogs 
to  its  lair. 

"  Yes,  I  hope  he  will  confess  all."  She  faced  him. 
"  I  tell  you  now  that  he  went  to  the  inn  to  confess  all 
—all." 

"  Then,"  Onslow  answered  in  a  thick  voice  of  brutal 
exultation,  ' '  he  will  not  do  it.  He  is  dead,  your 
Chevalier,  your  lover — dead." 

She  suppressed  the  cry  of  horror,  of  agony,  that  was 
wrung  from  her.  But  her  great  blue  eyes  fixed  on 
him.  "  You  killed  him  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  did." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  She  was  not  crying.  This  was  a  sorrow  too 
deep  for  tears. 

Suddenly  Onslow  darted  forward.  The  girl,  too, 
sprang  up.  A  horse's  hoofs,  several  horses'  hoofs, 
clattering  furiously  on  the  stones  of  the  deserted  Carre- 
four  could  be  heard  distinctly  for  those  who  had  ears  to 
hear. 

"  Miserable  libertine!  "  she  cried,  in  a  terrible  voice, 
"assassin!  Your  hour  has  come  as  I  told  you  it  would. 
You  will  not  leave  this  house  alive,  and  I  am  glad, 
very  glad.  Stand  back!"  she  said  peremptorily,  and 


338  No.  101 

she  had  whipped  out  a  pistol.  The  doors  are  locked, 
all  of  them.  Dear  God!  I  could  slay  you  with  my  own 
hands,  but  it  is  not  necessary." 

She  had  swiftly  stolen  behind  the  curtains.  There 
was  a  moment's  pause  while  Onslow  in  vain  tried  to 
force  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  There  was  a 
crash,  a  wrench,  and  then  the  curtains  were  drawn 
back. 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Ne"rac — Monsieur  George 
Onslow,"  the  girl  said  quietly,  as  if  she  were  introduc- 
ing two  gentlemen  in  a  lady's  salon.  She  had  flung 
the  window  open  and  Andre,  sword  in  hand,  was  stand- 
ing in  the  room,  looking  about  him  half  dazed  but 
triumphant. 

"That  man  there,"  she  proceeded  in  her  tearless 
voice,  pointing  at  Onslow,  "  is  an  English  spy.  In  his 
pocket  is  the  secret  despatch  of  Madame  de  Pompadour 
which  you  seek.  He  is  the  assassin,  by  his  own  con- 
fession, of  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant,  and  he  has  also 
a  valuable  letter  in  the  handwriting  of  the  Comte  de 
Mont  Rouge.  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  you  will  deal  with 
him  as  and  how  you  please,  but  if  you  have  any  pity 
for  the  blood  of  the  man  who  sent  you  to  this  place  you 
will  have  no  mercy  for  a  coward,  a  libertine,  and  an 
assassin.  Adieu!" 

She  had  swiftly  unlocked  one  of  the  side  doors, 
glided  through  it,  and  relocked  it  from  the  other  side, 
leaving  Onslow  and  Andre  face  to  face. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ANDRE  FAII^S  TO  DECIDE 

ONSLOW  had  the  advantage  of  Andre  in  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  essential  facts  of  the  situation;  and 
he  had  not  been  for  ten  years  an  agent  of  the  secret 
service,  in  daily  peril  of  his  life,  in  hourly  need  of  hav- 
ing to  decide  at  once  on  a  course  of  action,  without 
learning  all  that  an  able  and  desperate  man  can 
learn  from  pitting  his  wits  against  the  wits  of  men 
and  women  as  unscrupulous  and  desperate  as  him- 
self. 

"Good-evening,  Vicomte,"  he  now  said,  bowing 
politely.  ' '  I  could  not  have  wished  for  a  more  oppor- 
tune meeting.  As  a  proof,  there  are  my  pistols,"  he 
tossed  them  ostentatiously  on  to  the  table. 

Andre  drew  the  curtains  behind  him,  threw  off  his 
cloak,  and  advanced  into  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  You  killed  the  Chevalier?  "  he  demanded  briefly. 

"  Certainly.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  Because  he  had 
betrayed  me;  because,  rather,  he  was  the  lover  of  the 
woman  who  betrayed  me.  That  woman  is  the  '  No. 
101 '  you  have  sought  for  so  long,  who  has  baffled  you 

339 


340  No.  101 

before  and  has  baffled  you  again  to-night.  She  is  a 
liar  as  well  as  a  wanton." 

Andre"  quietly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Let  us  come  to  business,"  Onslow  said  coolly. 
"The  secret  despatch,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not  in  my 
possession.  It  would  have  been  in  ten  minutes,  but  it 
is  still  in  the  keeping  of  the  charming  spy,  who  is  prob- 
ably now  on  her  way  to  the  frontier.  Madame  de 
Pompadour  will  hear  more  of  it  before  long,  but  that 
does  not  concern  you.  What  does,"  he  held  out  a 
paper,  ' '  is  this  letter  in  the  handwriting  of  the  Comte 
de  Mont  Rouge." 

Onslow' s  tone  had  the  calmness  of  conviction,  and 
if  he  spoke  the  truth  Andre  knew  he  had  failed  miser- 
ably. It  was  more  than  probable  that  "  No.  101  "  had 
again  baffled  him.  For  the  despatch  was  more  impor- 
tant to  her  than  to  Onslow. 

"  Well?"  Andre  said,  to  gain  time  for  his  mind  to 
work. 

"  If  you  have  this  letter,  Vicomte,  you  can  ruin  your 
enemies  to-morrow.  Let  me  tell  you  that  Mademoiselle 
Denise  was  by  loaded  dice,  the  device  of  another  beauti- 
ful wanton  and  her  accomplice,  the  writer  of  this 
letter,"  he  held  it  out,  "  yes,  Mademoiselle  Denise  was 
chosen  to  steal  the  despatch  in  order  that  she,  as  well 
as  you,  might  be  destroyed.  I  see  you  did  not  know 
that.  It  is  worth  having,  that  letter." 

Onslow  recognised  at  once  he  had  struck  the  right 
chord.  Andre's  face  would  have  terrified  the  Comtesse 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  341 

des  Forges,  and  it  surprised  himself  as  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  it  in  the  glass.  Men  in  the  white  heat  of 
wrath  and  baffled  revenge  so  seldom  see  what  their 
faces  express. 

"You  can  kill  me,  of  course,"  Onslow  went  on 
easily.  "  I  am  an  English  spy.  But  you  will  not  get 
the  letter  nor  the  despatch  in  that  way.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause I  have  n't  the  one,  and  before  you  can  run  me 
through  the  letter  will  be  in  the  fire." 

"Stop!"  Andre  commanded,  for  Onslow  was  very 
near  the  stove  and  the  letter  was  very  precious. 

"  For  five  minutes  only,"  Onslow  retorted.  "  Give 
me  your  word  of  honour  that  you  will  let  me  go  free 
and  you  shall  have  the  letter — or  I  destroy  it  and  fight 
for  my  life  as  best  I  can.  Make  up  your  mind, 
Vicomte. ' ' 

The  clock  ticked  very  loud  and  clear  while  Andre" 
weighed  the  issues.  The  letter  was  precious ;  it  was 
there,  which  the  despatch  was  not ;  time  was  more 
precious  still,  for  there  remained  "  No.  101  "  to  be 
dealt  with.  Onslow' s  life  was  of  no  value  to  Denise  or 
himself.  Andre  studied  the  secret  agent's  calm  face 
for  three  silent  minutes. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  shall  go 
free,  on  my  word  of  honour." 

"I  thank  you.  But  you  have  decided  wisely." 
Onslow  placed  the  letter  on  the  table.  "  And  now," 
he  buttoned  up  his  cloak,  "  kindly  write  me  a  pass,  for 
I  must  leave  your  accursed  city  before  dawn." 


342  No.  101 

' '  The  password  at  the  Barrier  of  the  Hospital  of  St. 
I,ouis  is,  '  La  santedu  RoiJ  "  Andre"  answered.  "  That 
will  take  you  through  in  safety." 

Onslow  bowed.  "  My  compliments,  Vicomte;  your 
precautions  devised  at  such  short  notice  do  you  infinite 
credit.  I  fancy  we  shall  meet  again,  but  not  in  the 
salon  of  '  the  Princess '  either  in  Paris  or  London." 

Andre  had  moved  towards  the  writing-table.  "  I 
had  better  write  you  a  pass  after  all,"  he  said,  very 
politely,  ' '  the  police  are  not  so  scrupulous  as  I  am 
about  a  pledge  of  honour." 

Onslow  fell  into  the  trap.  Like  many  clever  men 
who  find  a  lie  succeed  beyond  their  expectations,  he 
wholly  misunderstood  the  motives  that  had  persuaded 
the  other  to  accept  for  truth  what  he  feared  was  un- 
true. Andre"  had  turned  his  back  to  write,  but  he  had 
hardly  scrawled  three  words  when  he  wheeled  with  in- 
credible swiftness. 

"  No  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  don't  stab  two  men  in  the 
back  unawares  in  one  night,  traitor  and  spy." 

For  that  was  what  Onslow  had,  dagger  in  hand, 
stealthily  crept  up  to  do,  inspired  by  the  sight  of 
Andrews  apparently  defenceless  position  at  the  writing- 
table  and  by  the  desire  to  wipe  out  a  long  score.  But 
a  chair  hurled  with  terrible  force  met  him  full  in  the 
stomach,  and  when  he  had  recovered  he  was  facing  the 
sword  point  of  the  finest  swordsman  in  Paris.  He  had 
lost  his  pistols,  and  the  death  his  lies  had  averted  so 
skilfully  was  at  hand. 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  343 

' '  I  will  tell  you  where  you  can  find  the  secret  de- 
spatch," the  spy  pleaded,  "  if  you  will  let  me  go." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  kill  you,"  Andre*  answered.  "A 
De  Nerac's  sword  is  not  to  be  soiled  with  the  carrion 
blood  of  an  English  hireling  and  assassin.  The  public 
executioner  will  deal  with  you,  not  I." 

He  whistled  sharply.  Three  of  the  guards  swung 
themselves  in  by  the  balcony. 

"Disarm  and  bind  that  scoundrel,"  was  the  brief 
order,  and  in  three  minutes  a  wounded  prisoner  had 
been  securely  tied  hand  and  foot.  Five  minutes  later 
George  Onslow  was  on  his  way  to  a  police  cell,  and 
Andre  was  standing  alone  in  the  beautiful  salon,  with 
the  secret  despatch  and  Mont  Rouge's  damning  letter 
in  his  possession. 

He  walked  up  and  down  trying  to  believe  that  his 
amazing  good  fortune  was  really  true.  The  terrible 
strain  of  the  last  twelve  hours  had  at  last  begun  to  tell, 
and,  instead  of  the  triumphant  joy  that  he  had  imagined 
would  be  his  should  he  achieve  the  impossible  and  re- 
cover the  despatch,  he  was  only  conscious  of  complete 
mental  and  physical  exhaustion,  of  a  strange  and  utter 
weariness.  The  power  of  his  mind  seemed  broken. 
His  ambition  had  melted  away.  He  had  no  doubt 
saved  Madame  de  Pompadour,  the  King's  secret  would 
remain  a  secret,  and  Denise  would  emerge  scathless 
from  the  awful  ordeal  into  which  she  had  been  plunged. 
The  love  for  which  he  had  plotted,  schemed,  and 
worked  would  be  his  now.  Yes,  he  had  gained  all  of 


344  No.  101 

which  ambition  had  inspired  him  to  dream,  more  than 
all,  for  he  had  only  to  put  into  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour's hands  that  guilty  letter,  and  the  men  and  women 
who  had  dabbled  in  treason  to  sate  their  jealousy  and 
their  lust  for  vengeance  would  be  condemned  to  pass 
from  the  Salon  de  V6nus  and  the  CE£il  de  Boeuf  to  the 
scaffold. 

Success!  a  Croix  de  St.  Louis,  a  Cordon  Bleu  already! 
To-morrow  he  might  be  Minister  for  War,  in  the  years 
to  come  he  might  share  with  the  bourgeoise  mistress  of 
his  Sovereign  the  rule  of  France.  But  at  what  a  cost  ? 
As  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  done  and  must  always 
do,  by  sleepless  intrigue  and  scheming,  by  playing  on 
the  fears  and  fancies,  the  bigotry  and  animal  passions 
of  the  King,  by  checkmating  or  degrading  the  noblesse 
into  an  odious  and  reluctant  submission.  He  had  won 
power  so  far  by  such  ways.  It  could  only  be  kept  at 
Versailles  by  the  same  hateful,  sordid  scuffling,  and  he, 
the  man,  must  daily  train  himself  to  keep  his  place  by 
trading  on  the  weakness  of  women,  from  the  kitchen 
wenches  to  the  mistress  of  the  robes,  by  trafficking  in 
the  selfish  plans  of  gamblers  as  ambitious  and  unscrupu- 
lous as  himself.  Versailles  was  there,  the  King  was 
there;  I/>uis  was  what  he  would  always  be,  an  impene- 
trable sensualist  and  the  despot  of  France.  More  bitter 
still,  the  life  of  the  Court  as  he  and  she  knew  it  was  what 
he  must  ask  Denise  now  to  share  and  to  lead.  The 
first  offering  of  their  marriage  feast  would  be  the  dis- 
grace, perhaps  the  blood,  of  the  men  of  his  own  order 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  345 

who  had  been  his  friends,  by  whose  side  he  had  fought 
for  France,  and  of  the  women  to  whom — .  Bah!  it  was 
a  revolting  thought.  Little,  indeed,  had  he  foreseen 
when  he  rode  down  the  hill  from  the  Castle  of  Beau 
Sejour,  and  swore  that  at  all  costs  and  by  all  means  he 
would  win  Denise,  what  success  might  and  did  mean. 
Well,  ah  well!  he  had  learned  it  at  last. 

Ah !  in  this  bitter  hour,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Denise, 
he  would  have  flung  despatch  and  letter  into  the  fire, 
and  left  Paris  to  cast  its  mystic  spell  of  tears  and 
laughter  on  other  men,  and  let  him  go  free,  deaf  to  the 
siren  song  of  the  ambitions  born  of  their  mother,  the 
enchantress  of  cities. 

Success!  Yet  had  he  succeeded  after  all?  Surely 
not.  "No.  101  "  had  escaped.  Futile  to  seek  her 
now.  Her  papers  had  been  destroyed.  She  was 
doubtless  provided  with  a  pass.  Proof  against  her 
there  was  none.  And  the  mystery  with  which  his 
search  had  begun  was  as  great  as  it  had  ever  been. 
Yvonne  had  vanished,  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant  was 
dead,  and  the  woman  herself  had  passed  triumphantly 
into  the  moonlit  autumn  night.  How  strange  and 
puzzling  it  all  was.  Yet,  had  not  indeed  the  Chevalier 
put  him  on  the  track,  had  she  herself  not  delivered 
that  assassin  and  spy  into  his  power  ?  In  a  few  days 
not  even  Onslow — and  who  would  believe  Onslow  ?— 
would  be  able  to  reveal  what  he  knew.  The  secret 
whose  fascination  lured  men  to  their  ruin  would  remain 
a  secret,  and  the  little  he  had  discovered  would  be 


346  No.  101 

buried  in  the  tombs  of  the  De  Neracs.  This  girl  had 
matched  herself  against  all  the  brains  and  resources  of 
a  great  government  and  had  defeated  King,  mistress, 
and  ministers,  not  once,  but  every  time.  Worse,  far 
worse,  what  she  had  done  in  the  past  she  could  repeat 
in  the  future.  That  eternal  struggle  for  power  at  Ver- 
sailles which  was  to  be  his  and  Denise's  life  from  to- 
day would  be  haunted  and  poisoned,  perhaps  thwarted 
and  brought  to  ruin,  by  the  same  strange  treachery. 
The  blood  of  the  Chevalier  would  taint  the  life  of 
Denise  and  himself  and  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  and 
the  King  for  ever. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  out  four. 
Andr6  stopped  his  pacing.  He  must  return  to  Ver- 
sailles, but  as  he  crossed  the  room  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  his  haggard,  sleepless  face  and  burning  eyes  in  the 
mirror,  and  he  halted  and  with  trembling  fingers  turned 
the  clock  sharply  round.  He  had  spied  the  reflection 
of  a  familiar  crest  on  the  reverse  of  the  timepiece. 
"Dieu  Le  Vengeur  !  "  He  had  not  been  wrong.  The 
words  were  written  round  the  crest.  "Dieu  Le 
Vengeur ! ' ' 

Andre  drew  a  deep  breath,  he  looked  all  round  the 
room  with  a  shiver.  What  did  it —  A  rustle  of  a 
woman's  dress.  The  great  curtains  were  quickly 
drawn  aside.  The  Princess,  as  he  had  seen  her  first  in 
I^ondon  with  the  blood-red  flowers  on  her  breast,  was 
watching  him,  pale  and  beautiful. 

"  Why  should  the  clock  not  be  there?"  she  asked, 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  347 

as  if  she  were  continuing  a  conversation.  "Are  you  so 
ignorant  of  Paris,  Vicomte,  as  not  to  know  that  the 
salon  in  which  you  stand  once  belonged  to  the  owners 
of  the  clock  ?  It  is  a  fine  motto  and  truer  than  most. 
'Amour  fait  tout?  for  example."  She  had  smilingly 
selected  the  motto  of  the  De  Neracs.  "  You  don't 
agree  ? ' ' 

"  I  did  not  come  here,"  Andre"  answered,  "to  discuss 
mottoes." 

The  appearance  of  this  woman  had  awakened  all  his 
latent  anger,  his  sense  of  defeat.  She  should  not 
escape  him  again. 

"  No,  but  to  do  my  business,"  she  retorted.  "  I  see 
you  have  won  your  despatch  and  your  letter" — they 
were  lying  on  the  table — ' '  and  I  gladly  infer  that  you 
have  given  a  scoundrel  his  deserts.  For  that  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  One  libertine  and 
traitor  less  in  the  world  is  a  blessing  even  to  women 
such  as  I  am." 

Her  perfect  calm,  the  complete  absence  of  fear,  the 
extraordinary  strangeness  of  their  meeting,  the  crest 
and  motto  on  the  clock,  had  reduced  Andre"  to  impotent 
silence.  The  Princess  and  crystal-gazer  quietly  sat 
down.  "  One  question  before  you  go,"  she  said  in  a 
changed  tone — "did  Onslow  tell  the  truth  when  he  said 
that  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant  was  dead  ?  " 

"Yes." 

She  stretched  her  arms,— the  gesture  was  curiously 
familiar  to  Andre,— but  she  said  nothing  for  some 


348  No.  101 

minutes.  "  It  is  fate,"  was  her  comment  in  a  tearless 
voice  when  she  spoke  at  last.  "Fate!"  she  rose, 
"fate,  dear  God!"  She  was  staring  with  knitted 
fingers  into  the  cold  shadows  cast  by  the  four  flickering 
candles.  And  Andre"  was  more  moved  by  the  sight  of 
her  stern,  impassive  self-restraint  than  if  she  had  wept. 
Surely  she  had  loved  the  dead  man,  for  he  was  in  the 
company  of  a  sorrow  too  sacred  to  be  fathomed  even 
by  herself. 

"  Why  did  you  come  back,"  he  asked  bitterly,  "why 
did  you  come  back  ? ' ' 

She  awoke  from  her  reverie.  ' '  Where  could  I  go  ?  " 
she  answered.  "To  'The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of 
Gold '  ?  "  She  shivered.  "  To  '  The  Gallows  and  the 
Three  Crows,'  where  your  police  are  now?  To  the 
Barriers  that  are  guarded  by  your  men?  I  had  not 
the  password.  The  man  who  would  have  given  it  to 
me,  had  I  chose  to  ask  it,  I  have  sent  to  his  account. 
No,  my  friend,  I  prefer  to  be  arrested  by  a  gentleman 
who  will  do  his  duty  like  a  gentleman,  and  will  not 
chaffer  with  me  as  if  I  were  a  street- walker." 

Andre  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow.  The 
woman  smiled  and  approached  him. 

"Come,  Vicomte,"  she  said.  "It  is  disagreeable, 
perhaps,  for  Andre  de  Nerac  to  arrest  a  beautiful 
woman,  but  you  have  kept  your  men  waiting  quite 
long  enough  in  the  Carrefour  out  there.  Onslow  has 
gone  to  the  Bastile  ?  Yes  ?  Then  do  me  the  favour  of 
sending  me  to  Vincennes.  I  cannot  share  the  same 


Andr€  Fails  to  Decide  349 

prison  as  that  miscreant  murderer."  She  walked 
towards  the  curtains.  Andre  guessed  she  was  about 
to  signal  to  the  square. 

"  Stop,"  he  cried,  in  sharp  despair,  "  stop!  " 

"  You  have  no  choice,"  she  said.  "Are  you  aware 
that  I  have  been  tracked  to  this  house  ;  that  it  is  known 
to  your  police,  warned  by  yourself  four  hours  ago,  that 
I  have  not  left  it  ?  Do  you  doubt  my  word  ?  Then 
look."  She  cautiously  drew  back  a  curtain  on  the 
panelled  wall  which  covered  a  small  window.  Andre", 
with  the  curtain  behind  him  shutting  out  the  light, 
stared  into  the  moonlit  court  at  the  back.  When  he 
let  the  curtain  fall  his  face  wore  almost  the  look  of  the 
hunted  felon. 

"Well;  you  recognised  them,"  the  Princess  said 
calmly.  "Four,  I  think.  Yes?  They  are  Madame 
de  Pompadour's  men,"  she  added.  "She  does  not 
trust  you,  poor  woman;  she,  too,  sent  messages  from 
Versailles,  and  she  will  wish  to  know  in  the  morning 
the  reason  why  you  have  not  arrested  the  impudent 
hussy  who  derided  her  at  an  inn,  who  is  a  traitor  into 
the  bargain,  and  who  was  in  your  power,  alone,  unde- 
fended, and  with  the  evidence  of  her  guilt  staring  you 
in  the  face."  She  quietly  touched  the  despatch  and 
the  letter  lying  on  the  table.  "  Unless,  my  friend,  you 
wish  to  join  George  Onslow,  the  Comte  de  Mont 
Rouge,  and  myself  in  the  cells  you  had  better  do  your 
duty." 

Andre  feverishly  took  up  the  papers;  he  looked  now 


350  No.  101 

towards  the  great  window  into  the  Carrefour,  now  to- 
wards that  hateful  little  outlook  into  the  court  where 
he  knew  the  sleuth-hounds  of  an  ambitious  woman 
dogged  their  guilty  prey. 

"  It  is  useless  to  destroy  the  papers,"  the  Princess  re- 
marked placidly.  ' '  That  will  only  send  Mademoiselle 
de  Beau  Sejour  to  join  our  pleasant  party  at  the  Bas- 
tile.  Madame  de  Pompadour  is  a  great  and  beautiful 
woman,  but  like  all  really  ambitious  men  and  women 
she  has  no  mercy,  and  she  naturally  does  not  wish  to 
take  our  places  in  the  cells.  She  is  fighting  for  her  life 
and  love  as  you  are.  Come,  Vicomte,  be  reasonable. 
In  five  minutes  it  will  be  all  over  and  you  will  return 
a  hero  to  Versailles.  Remember  what  awaits  you 
there." 

Every  sentence  in  this  calmly  terrible  speech  made 
Andre  feel  more  misery  than  he  could  have  believed  a 
man  could  endure. 

"  Why  be  in  any  doubt?  "  she  began  again. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake—"  he  pleaded.  "  For  God's 
sake " 

"  No,  you  must  hear  me  out.  The  proof  of  my 
treachery  is  here;  they,  these  men,  will  find  it  on  me  "; 
she  had  drawn  a  paper  from  her  breast.  Do  you  knew 
what  that  is?  It  is  a  copy  of  the  secret  despatch;  it  is 
addressed  to  the  agent  who  would  convey  it  to  Eng- 
land, and  it  is  signed." 

She  held  it  up  and  in  the  flickering  light  Andre  could 
see  the  red  mystic  sign  of  the  crossed  daggers  and  the 


Yvonne,  of  course  ;  Yvonne  of  the  spotless  ankles, 
she  lifted  her  dress  a  few  inches. 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  35 1 

cipher  number.  He  shivered  as  she  replaced  it  in  her 
bosom.  "  The  game  is  up  for  me,"  she  said  in  her  im- 
passive voice.  ' '  That  paper  will  send  me  to  the  scaffold, 
and  unless  you  arrest  me  it  will  send  you  too." 

"  You  are  mad,"  he  cried  incoherently,  and  he  really 
believed  what  he  said.  "  You  are  mad." 

"  Was  the  woman  mad  who  tricked  you  at  Fontenoy, 
who  has  tricked  and  befooled  you  at  every  turn  since 
you  came  back  ?  I  have  betrayed  your  country,  your 
King,  your  army,  yourself,  and  yet  you,  a  noble  hating 
treason,  loving  France,  hesitate  to  arrest  the  traitress 
whom  you  have  sworn  to  bring  to  justice.  It  is  you 
who  are  mad,  my  friend,  not  I;  or  shall  I  say,"  she 
had  dropped  her  eyes  and  curtsied,  ' '  Monseigneur  is 
too  good  ? ' ' 

1 '  Yvonne  ! ' '  the  exclamation  burst  from  his  lips. 
He  was  leaning  heavily  on  a  chair  and  peering  dazed 
into  her  eyes. 

"  Yvonne,  of  course;  Yvonne  of  the  Spotless  Ankles," 
she  lifted  her  dress  a  few  inches.  "  Yvonne  whom  at 
the  bidding  of  another  woman  you  were  to  make  your 
tool.  Did  you  ?  I  think  not,  for  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac 
can  be  more  easily  tricked  by  women  into  doing  what 
they  please  than  the  most  unscrupulous  libertine  in 
France.  But  you  must  take  your  revenge  on  Yvonne 
now." 

Yvonne  !  Andre's  brain  reeled.  Yvonne,  who  had 
saved  his  life,  was  a  traitress,  the  traitress  whose 
crimes  merited  condign  punishment,  whom  now,  by 


352  No.  101 

the  devilish  device  of  fate,  he  must  arrest  and  send  to 
a  felon's  death  to  save  himself  and  Denise. 

He  seized  her  arm.  "  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  "  he 
cried,  beside  himself,  for  the  torture  of  the  fascinating 
riddle  racked  him  beyond  endurance. 

"That,"  she  replied  with  her  slow  smile,  "is  my 
secret  and  it  will  perish  with  me.  Do  your  duty, 
Vicomte,  and  return  to  Versailles.  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour awaits  you;  the  blood  of  the  noblesse,  her  foes, 
will  atone  in  her  eyes.  She  has  triumphed,  and  so 
have  you.  Go  back  to  your  King,  take  him  the  proof 
of  his  royal  intrigues,  destroy  the  noble  traitors  who 
would  have  destroyed  you.  Love  and  revenge,  the 
sweetest  things  the  world  can  give  a  man,  are  yours. 
Are  they  not  enough  ?  "  She  was  coolly  taunting  him, 
and  out  there  in  the  court-yard  waited  the  police  ready 
to  arrest  a  traitress  with  the  proof  of  her  crime  on  her 
person.  Was  ever  a  man  in  so  cruel  and  tragic  a 
position  ? 

"Why  do  you  waver?"  she  asked  very  quietly. 
"  Is  it  because  of  Denise  ?  " 

He  met  her  gaze.  This  was  not  the  crystal- gazer, 
nor  the  "  Princess,"  nor  even  Yvonne  who  spoke.  It 
was  another  woman,  from  whom  all  that  was  hateful, 
cynical,  insolent,  had  vanished.  Andre's  hands  on  his 
chair  trembled. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "  were  it  not  for 
Denise  and  Denise' s  sake  alone  I  would  destroy  these  pa- 
pers and  would  take  you  past  the  Barriers  myself.  You 


Andre  Fails  to  Decide  353 

saved  my  life  once,  more  than  once,  for  you  could  have 
killed  me  in  the  cabin  at  Fontenoy;  you  and  the  Cheva- 
lier— God  rest  his  soul — enabled  me  to  save  the  honour 
of  Denise— Denise."  He  paused  for  emotion.  "  You 
have  enabled  me  to  save  my  own  honour.  Why  you 
did  these  things  I  do  not  know.  But  I  would  to- 
night, and  now,  take  you  past  the  Barrier  of  St.  I/>uis, 
and  I  would  then  bid  Versailles  and  you  adieu  for  ever. 
God  alone  can  judge  you,  not  I — but  Denise — there  is 
Denise ' ' 

"  Then  Denise  herself  must  decide." 

She  was  mad  after  all;  stark  mad.  He  stood  help- 
lessly picking  at  the  embroidered  upholstery  of  the 
chair.  Mad,  mad;  they  were  all  mad. 

The  woman  had  glided  towards  the  door  on  the 
right.  Andre  looked  up  exultingly.  Ha!  She  was 
gone — fled.  Then  he,  too,  must  escape  at  once.  He 
gathered  up  the  papers,  seized  his  cloak,  and  darted 
towards  the  window,  only  to  start  back  with  a  cry. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  doorway  stood  Denise. 

He  stood  spellbound.     Yes,  it  was  Denise. 
23 


CHAPTER  XXX 

DEMISE  HAS  TO  DECIDE  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 

SHE  came  forward  with  outstretched  hands. 
"Andre,"  she  asked  with  passionate  eagerness,  "  you 
are  safe  ? ' ' 

He  took  her  to  his  breast,  looking  into  her  eyes. 
"  Sweetheart,"  he  whispered,  "  why  are  you  here?" 

"  Because  you  sent  for  me,"  she  began  innocently. 

"  Sent  for  you  ?  "  he  repeated,  in  dull  bewilderment. 
"Mad,"  he  muttered,  "mad,  mad."  His  brain  was 
beginning  to  break  down. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  for  his  face  frightened  her, 
"  you  sent  for  me.  See;  read." 

Andre"  took  the  strip  of  paper  from  her.  After  a  few 
minutes  he  was  able  to  spell  out  these  words: 

"I  am  in  great  danger.  You  alone  can  save  me.  Come  at 
once  to  Paris.  Carrefour  de  St.  Antoine  No.  3.  ANDRE." 

The  paper  dropped.  The  writing  was  his,  at  least 
it  appeared  to  be.  Could  he  have  written  it?  He 
searched  his  whirling  thoughts,  recalling  the  events  of 
this  awful  night  following  on  the  King's  illness,  the 
strain  of  waiting  in  Madame  de  Pompadour's  room 

354 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  355 

after  the  scene  at  the  inn,  the  discovery  of  Denise,  the 
interviews  that  followed,  the  finding  of  the  Chevalier 
and  Mont  Rouge,  the  gallop  to  Paris,  and  then  all  that 
had  happened  in  this  salon.  He  snatched  at  the  paper 
again;  he  had  not  written  it;  no,  it  was  a  clever 
forgery,  the  work  of  the  only  woman  who  could  do  it 
— "  No.  101." 

Denise  was  watching  him  in  terror,  for  his  lips 
moved,  yet  he  said  nothing. 

"A  girl  called  Yvonne,"  she  whispered,  "  brought  it 
to  me  at  midnight;  she  conducted  me  to  this  house, 
and  I  have  been  waiting  here  ever  since,  waiting  for 
you.  Yvonne  has  disappeared  and  the  doors  were  all 
locked.  There  is  only  the  woman  who " 

They  both  turned  sharply  at  the  rustle  of  a  dress  and 
stood  hand  in  hand  gazing  in  silence,  for  there  had 
entered  the  girl  whom  Andre"  had  seen  plotting  with 
Onslow  at  "  The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold." 

Andr£  mechanically  whipped  off  his  hat,  Denise 
mechanically  answered  the  curtsey  of  the  lady  who  had 
entered,  for  this  was  a  gentlewoman  of  their  own  rank, 
whose  beauty  would  have  adorned  the  great  hall  in  the 
Chateau  de  Beau  S6jour. 

"We  agreed,"  she  began  quietly,  "  that  Mademoi- 
selle la  Marquise  was  to  decide.  Monsieur  le  Vicomte, 
what  I  have  to  say  is  for  the  ears  of  Mademoiselle 
alone.  Permit  me  to  show  you  where  you  can  wait. 
I  shall  not  keep  you  long."  She  pointed  with  her  fan 
to  the  door  and  then  held  out  her  fingers. 


356  No.  101 

Andre  walked  out  of  the  room  like  one  in  a  dream. 
The  door  closed.  The  two  women  were  alone. 

"  I  can  be  brief,"  the  stranger  said  quietly.  "  You 
have  heard  of '  No.  101 ' ;  you  know  of  the  stealing  of 
the  secret  despatch.  I  am  the  thief.  I  am  '  No. 

101."' 

Denise  recoiled  with  a  cry  of  horror,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  girl's  face  with  an  expression  of  indignant 
stupefaction. 

"The  Vicomte  de  Nerac,"  the  stranger  proceeded, 
' '  knows  what  you  know  now,  and  he  will  return  to 
Versailles  a  hero, ' '  she  paused,  "if  he  will  arrest  me. 
He  has  the  despatch;  he  has  a  letter  which  will  convict 
the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge,  who,  Mademoiselle,  by 
loaded  dice,  sent  you  to  be  the  thief  of  the  Court.  The 
Vicomte  has  been  seen  to  come  here;  it  has  also  been 
discovered  that  I  am  in  this  house,  and  unless  he  re- 
turns to  Versailles  with  that  despatch  he  will  be  ruined 
and  Madame  de  Pompadour  will  also  send  you  to  the 
Bastile,  for  she  has  proof  that  you  were  in  her  room 
this  night.  The  Vicomte  is  in  great  danger,  and  you 
were  summoned  here  to  save  him,  for  at  your  bidding 
alone  will  he  do  his  duty  and  arrest  the  traitress— 
myself." 

Denise' s  indignation  had  already  begun  to  melt. 
She  freed  the  necklace  at  her  throat  as  if  it  were  chok- 
ing her. 

"Shall  I  now  ask  the  Vicomte  to  return?"  The 
girl  moved  towards  the  door. 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  357 

"  Wait — one  moment!  You  are  " — Denise  broke  off 
in  agitation — "  you  are  Yvonne  ?  "  she  whispered. 

The  stranger  sat  down  and  unconcernedly  began  to 
tear  up  one  of  the  sheets  of  paper  littering  the  floor. 
"  I  am,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"And  you  gave  the  Vicomte  de  N6rac  the  secret  de- 
spatch which  you  stole  ?  ' ' 

' '  He  took  it  from  the  English  agent  to  whom  I  had 
given  it." 

"Ah!"  Again  Denise  had  guessed  the  truth. 
"  You  once  saved  the  Vicomte' s  life  ?  "  she  went  on. 

41 1  helped  to  do  so." 

"  Yet  you  are  a  traitress  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  traitress,  and  a  traitress  I  should  have 
continued  to  be  if  you  and  the  Vicomte  de  NeVac  had 
not  stepped  in  to  prevent  me." 

The  emotionless  voice  in  which  this  confession  was 
made  had  ceased  to  startle  Denise,  for  she  was  scanning 
the  girl's  face  intently. 

"Ah!"  she  cried  with  sudden  conviction,  "the 
Chevalier  de  St.  Amant  is  your  brother!  " 

The  other  looked  up  quickly.  "  Was  my  brother," 
she  corrected  gently.  ' '  The  Chevalier  de  St.  Amant 
is  dead." 

"Merciful  God!"  Denise  was  leaning  against  a 
chair,  faint  and  white. 

"He  was  killed  at  the  inn  by  the  English  agent, 
from  whom  in  this  room  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  took  the 
secret  despatch."  Denise  had  covered  her  face  with 


358  No.  101 

her  hands.  "And  you  are  right,  Mademoiselle;  the 
Chevalier  was  my  brother,  who  helped  me  till  to-night 
to  be  the  traitress  that  I  am." 

"  Silence,"  Denise  cried  in  anguish.  "Oh,  for  God's 
sake  be  silent !  " 

"The  truth,"  replied  the  other  in  her  passionless 
voice,  "  can  never  be  silent." 

Denise  walked  to  and  fro,  wrung  by  a  torture  unen- 
durable to  a  woman's  soul. 

Suddenly  she  paused.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  de- 
manded, "  that  your  brother  saved  the  Vicomte  de 
Ne"rac  when  he  might  have  ruined  him  ?  " 

"  I  know  more  than  that.  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  I 
know  that  what  he  did  was  done  because  he  loved 
you.  That  also  is  the  truth." 

Denise  caught  at  her  arms.  The  question  in  her 
gesture  and  her  eyes  needed  no  words.  The  girl  rose 
and  faced  her. 

' '  When  we  parted  at  the  foot  of  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour's stairs  his  last  words  were,  '  Unless  Denise  or  the 
Vicomte  gets  the  paper  Denise  is  ruined.'  The  paper 
was  in  my  possession  and  my  brother  went  back  to  the 
inn  to  explain  to  the  English  agent  why  he  could  not 
have  it." 

' '  But  why  did  you  not  give  me  the  paper  at  Ver- 
sailles— you  came  to  me  as  Yvonne — you " 

"  If  I  had  given  you  the  paper  at  Versailles  should  I 
have  been  here  now  ?  I  loved  my  life  a  little  then — I 
did  not  know  my  brother's  fate." 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  359 

And  Denise  had  no  answer  but  a  shiver  of  mute 
assent. 

1 '  You  have  forgotten  my  brother,  who  was  to  come 
here  to  meet  me  that  we  might  fly  together;  you  have 
also  forgotten  the  Vicomte,  to  whom  that  despatch  was 
a  necessity,  and  you  have  forgotten  yourself,  Made- 
moiselle. Could  my  brother,  who  loved  you,  have 
wished  that  you  should  at  Versailles  have  been  proved 
to  have  stolen  what  you  had  tried  to  steal  ?  You  have 
forgotten  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Would  she  or  the 
King  have  believed  your  story  that  a  peasant  girl  had 
given  you  the  despatch  ? ' '  She  paused  for  a  moment. 
"  Would  the  Vicomte  have  believed  it? " 

"Andre*?"  Denise  cried  passionately.  "How  dare 
you?" 

"There  was  only  one  way,"  the  girl  continued, 
quietly  ignoring  that  cry  of  love's  conviction,  "  to  save 
you  from  the  trap  into  which  your  enemies  had  lured 
you,  and  that  was  to  bring  the  Vicomte  and  yourself 
here.  My  brother  would  have  wished  it,  and  I  am 
glad  that  I  tried  and  succeeded." 

She  turned  away;  her  voice  showed  that  the  wonder- 
ful strength  of  will  which  had  sustained  her  was  giving 
way  at  last. 

"  You  did  it,"  Denise  said  after  a  long  silence,  "  not 
for  my  sake,  not  wholly  for  your  brother's,  but— be- 
cause you  love  Andre." 

The  girl,  who  had  sunk  on  to  the  sofa,  presently  rose 
and  crossed  the  room,  and  Denise,  watching  her  as  only 


360  No.  101 

one  woman  can  watch  another,  shrank  at  the  sight  of 
that  noble  and  pathetic  beauty. 

"Yes,"  was  the  unfaltering  answer,"  I  did  it  be- 
cause I  love  Andre,  because  I  alone  can  save  him. 
Ah !  it  is  not  you,  but  I  —  I,  who  have  saved 
him." 

Denise  gazed  at  her  in  silent  helplessness.  Fate  was 
too  strong  for  them  all.  The  clock  chimed  out  five 
strokes  into  the  awful  quiet  of  the  room,  and  as  Denise, 
in  her  restless  misery,  walked  past  the  fireplace  with 
its  sculptured  marble  chimney-piece,  she  halted  with 
a  sharp-drawn  breath.  The  crest  on  the  clock  had 
caught  her  eye,  for  the  motto  on  it  was  ' '  Dieu  Le 
Vengeur  /" 

"  Before  we  part,"  she  cried,  "  you  will  tell  me,  you 
must,  who  you  are  —  no,"  she  added,  in  a  stricken 
voice,  "it  is  not  necessary.  I  know,  I  know.  Ah, 
God!  this  is  terrible.  lDieu  Le  Vengeur!''"  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

A  quiet  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder.     "  Denise." 

For  some  moments  they  looked  at  each  other  in 
breathless  silence. 

"It  is  true;  yes  it  is  true,  and  you  —  you  have 
guessed  because  you  are  a  woman  who  loves.  Ah! 
when  your  ancestors  were  as  nothing  mine  were  the 
nobles  who  made  kings,  who  were  leading  the  armies 
of  France.  I  am  a  traitress,  but  to  what  ?  ' '  her  voice 
rang  out.  "  To  the  man  called  Louis  the  Fifteenth,  a 
craven,  a  bigot,  a  liar,  a  libertine,  the  victim  of  the 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  361 

priests  and  his  lusts.  That  man  is  not  France,  not 
your  France  and  mine.  Listen.  What  would  you 
have  done  if  the  King— the  King,"  her  scorn  was  im- 
measurable, ' '  had  stolen  your  mother,  deserted  her, 
sent  your  father  to  the  scaffold  for  treason  that  he  never 
committed  ?  if  you,  the  only  daughter,  had  been  saved 
from  infamy  and  beggary  by  two  faithful  servants  and 
brought  up  in  secret  to  know  that  your  name  was  cor- 
rupted, your  brother  a  starveling  in  exile,  your  lands 
given  to  another  ?  To  that  King  I  bear  no  allegiance 
and  will  bear  none,  so  help  me  God,  God  who  can 
avenge. ' ' 

"Then " 

"  Do  not  say  that  name.  It  is  blotted  out,  but  it  is 
mine.  Fifteen  years  ago,  a  child,  I  swore,  and  every 
year  since  I  have  sworn  it  on  the  grave  that  is  called 
mine,  that  I  would  have  revenge." 

Denise  answered  with  pale  lips,  "  Yes,  revenge." 

' '  My  brother  and  I  planned  and  plotted  revenge  and 
we  succeeded.  The  Court  and  the  King  can  judge  of 
that.  Beauty  was  mine  and  I  nourished  it  for  revenge, 
I  used  it  for  revenge,  but  I  have  never  forgotten,  never, 
that  I  am  a  daughter  of  the  noblesse,  a  woman  as  proud 
of  my  womanhood  as  you,  Denise." 

"  Thank  God,"  she  murmured  gently. 

"  To  the  world  I  was  simply  a  number,  to  myself  a 
sexless  tool,  living  for  one  object  alone,  until  you  came 
into  my  brother's  life,  and  then,  ah,  then,  I  dreamed 
of  the  day  when  my  brother  should  win  through  you 


362  No.  101 

what  is  his  by  right  —  should  be  Marquis  de  Beau 
Se"jour.  But " 

Denise  took  her  hand. 

"  If  that  were  only  all."  She  paused  for  a  moment, 
overcome.  "  In  I^ondon  Andre  came  into  my  life. 
Till  that  fatal  day  I  have  inspired  many  men  with  the 
passion  they  call  love.  I  thought  I  alone  of  women 
knew  not  what  love  could  be,  but  another  dream  came 
to  haunt  me.  It  could  not  be.  You  did  not  love 
Francois.  Andre  did  not  love  me.  Some  day  he  will 
tell  you  the  story;  the  truth  he  must  never  know." 

"And  your  brother " 

' '  Yes,  he  worked  for  you  as  best  he  could  and  I  for 
Andre.  Remember  what  we  were  and  how  we  were 
placed.  But  we  have  succeeded  —  love  brought  us 
through.  We  remembered  our  Beau  Sejour,  and  you 
whom  he  loved,  he  whom  I  loved,  will  share  it  between 
you.  I  thank  God  for  that.  My  mother,"  the  girl 
went  on,  "  was  a  De  Nerac,  a  cousin  of  Andre's 
mother.  Had  justice  been  done  fifteen  years  ago 
Andre's  father  should  have  had  my  forfeited  lands. 
But  love  will  do  what  justice  could  not — your  love  and 
mine." 

"Andre  can  restore  you  your  name,  your  honour. 
He  shall,  he  must." 

"It  is  impossible.  You  cannot  change  the  King. 
He  would  not,  could  not,  undo  the  past — his  past.  My 
brother  is  dead,  my  family  will  die  with  me  as  will  my 
secret.  Fate  is  too  strong  for  you,  for  me,  for  France. 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  363 

With  Francois  I  worked  to  destroy  the  woman  who 
now  rules  at  Versailles  and  will  continue  to  rule.  And 
Andre  from  love  for  you  strove  to  defeat  us.  Madame 
de  Pompadour  has  triumphed  over  the  Court,  the 
noblesse,  the  Church,  my  brother,  and  you.  Remem- 
ber the  past  and  to-night.  Remember  you  can  only 
ruin  that  woman  by  ruining  yourself,  by  ruining 
Andre,  and  you  will  not  save  me.  I  see  it  all  now. 
It  is  the  destiny  of  France,  and  against  the  destiny  of 
God's  will  we  must  fight  in  vain." 

Deuise  had  clasped  her  hands  like  one  listening  to 
the  sentence  of  a  supreme  power.  Were  they  not  all 
caught  alike  in  the  web  of  a  mysterious  and  inscrutable 
force,  mere  puppets  as  it  seemed  in  a  stupendous  drama 
whose  beginning  and  whose  end  were  beyond  all  hu- 
man insight  and  control,  but  puppets  also  of  flesh  and 
blood,  whose  passions  and  whose  spirit,  whose  ambi- 
tions and  whose  ideals,  whose  souls  and  bodies  so 
strong  and  so  weak,  gave  to  the  drama  the  immortal 
breath  of  life  ?  If — ah,  if — Denise  wrung  her  hands 
again.  How  few  are  there  of  those  born  of  women 
from  whom  has  not  been  wrung  that  bitter  cry  of  re- 
volt against  the  "if"  of  fate — if  only  they  had  been 
taught  that  out  of  the  past  comes  the  present  and  out 
of  the  present  will  come  the  future,  and  that  they,  the 
puppets,  must  make,  every  hour,  their  own  lives  and 
the  lives  of  all  others. 

"  You  cannot  save  your  France  and  mine,"  the  girl 
was  saying.  "  She  is  doomed,  doomed.  The  writing 


364  No.  101 

is  on  the  walls.  Ruin  is  coming  on  kings  and  nobles 
and  the  people.  In  ten,  twenty,  perhaps  fifty  years 
there  will  be  a  new  France,  for  the  greatness  of  my 
people  and  yours  no  power  can  crush.  Voices  are  cry- 
ing out  in  the  streets  of  Paris  to-day,  but  France  will 
not  listen.  She  is  drunk,  mad,  diseased,  corrupt.  Yet 
I  know  it,  it  has  been  revealed  to  me,  that  there  is  a 
glorious  future  for  our  country,  and  see  to  it  that  the 
sons  of  what  to-day  is  called  Beau  Sejour  shall  be  in 
the  hour  of  that  rebirth  on  the  side  of  the  new  France." 

She  moved  quietly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
softly,  "  Mademoiselle  has  decided.  Come." 

As  Andre  entered  he  gazed  from  one  to  the  other 
with  the  calmness  of  a  great  fear.  What  had  he  come 
to  be  told  ?  He  saw  Denise's  mind  was  made  up,  and 
he  knew  he  must  obey. 

"Andre,"  she  said,  with  dignified  composure,  "  you 
will  please  bring  the  chief  of  police  from  the  court-yard 
to  this  room." 

For  an  instant  he  wavered,  then  controlling  his  emo- 
tion he  left  the  room.  When  he  returned  with  the 
chief  of  police  one  woman,  hooded  and  cloaked,  alone 
was  there. 

Denise  threw  back  the  girl's  cloak  which  she  had 
slipped  on.  The  police  agent  started  with  intense 
surprise. 

"You  recognise  me,  Monsieur,"  Denise  said  freez- 
ingly.  "  Yes,  it  is  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour,  and 
one  of  the  maids  of  honour  to  her  Majesty,  who  is  not 


Denise  Has  to  Decide  365 

accustomed  to  be  shadowed  when  she  visits  a  house 
that  belongs  to  herself,  as  this  does." 

"  I  offer  my  apologies  to  Mademoiselle  la  Marquise," 
the  man  stammered,  "  but  I  thought — I  felt  sure " 

"  What  you  chose  to  think,"  Denise  pursued,  "  can 
be  no  excuse  for  so  insulting  a  mistake.  The  Mar- 
quise de  Beau  Sejour  will,  however,  overlook  it  for 
once,  provided  that  you  promise  not  to  repeat  the 
offence.  That  will  do." 

She  turned  her  back  on  his  fervent  avowals  and  the 
man  crept  from  her  haughty  presence.  In  five  minutes 
the  court-yard  was  clear  of  Madame  de  Pompadour's 
spies. 

Denise  had  fetched  the  stranger  back.  "  Andre"," 
she  said,  ' '  be  so  good  as  to  conduct  this  lady  yourself 
to  the  barriers.  I  will  wait  for  you  here." 

The  girl  quietly  put  on  her  cloak.  "  Adieu,  Made- 
moiselle ! ' '  They  clasped  hands  in  silence.  ' '  Adieu — 
Denise,"  she  whispered.  "Adieu  for  ever!  "  Without 
another  word  Andre"  and  she  left  the  room. 

When  he  returned  an  hour  later  one  glance  at  his 
face  told  Denise  that,  whatever  had  passed  in  the 
journey,  he  did  not  know  the  secret  of  "  No.  101." 
That  was  still  to  remain  in  the  keeping  of  two  women 
who  loved  the  same  man,  and  it  would  go  with  those 
two  to  the  grave  a  secret  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FORTUNE'S  BANTER 

"MONSIEUR  I,E  VICOMTE  DE  NERAC  waits  on  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise,"  said  the  gentleman-usher. 

Madame  de  Pompadour  glanced  at  the  clock.  As 
Andre  bowed  it  began  to  strike  ten  distinctly. 

"You  are  punctual,  Vicomte,  and  a  man  of  your 
word,"  the  lady  said  with  a  faint  smile. 

Andre"  bowed  again.  What  a  contrast!  The  salon 
was  as  gay  and  refined  as  it  had  been  a  week  ago.  All 
traces  of  disorder  had  vanished  and  Madame  herself  in 
her  heliotrope  silk  was  as  divinely  seductive,  as  fresh 
and  unconquerable,  as  when  she  had  captivated  Paris 
and  the  King  at  the  ball  of  the  H6tel-de-Ville.  And 
against  that  vision  of  loveliness  he  saw  reflected  in  the 
mirror  his  own  grim  face,  with  the  haggard  ej'es  and 
deep-cut  lines  round  mouth  and  chin  of  a  man  who  had 
' '  been  in  hell ' '  since  he  last  stood  in  this  room. 

"You  are  tired,"  Madame  said  gently.  "If  you 
please — "  she  wheeled  a  chair  forward.  But  Andre 
remained  standing.  "  I  have  to  ask  your  pardon," 
she  continued,  dropping  her  eyes.  I  am  sorry  that  last 
night  I  used  words  which  I  deeply  regret  using.  But 

366 


Fortune's  Banter  367 

though  I  cannot  ask  you,  Vicomte,  to  forget  them,  I 
can  and  do  ask  you  to  forgive." 

Andre's  hand  tightened  unconsciously  on  the  back 
of  the  chair.  He  was  here  to  demand  an  apology,  and 
he  had  been  swiftly  disarmed  by  one  gentle  stroke. 

"  This  is  the  jewel  of  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour," 
Madame  said,  "  it  is  useless  to  me.  I  return  it  to  you, 
unless  you  prefer  I  should  return  it  to  the  Marquise 
herself  in  your  presence  and  repeat  what  I  have  tried 
to  say  to  you." 

Andre  took  the  jewel  mechanically.  An  apology 
also  to  Denise!  That,  too,  he  had  come  to  extort,  and 
it  was  his  and  hers  without  the  asking.  The  pastels 
on  the  panelled  walls  rocked  slowly  in  a  blur  of  the 
October  sunlight  which  kissed  the  heliotrope  ribbon  on 
Madame' s  throat. 

"  You  have  served  me,"  she  added,  "  as  no  man  has 
ever  done  or  ever  will.  I  was  ungrateful  and  false  and 
cruel  and  unjust.  Let  me  atone  now."  She  had  held 
out  a  hand. 

A  third  time  Andre"  felt  that  he  did  not  know  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour;  he  was  learning  as  some  men 
can  that  the  heart  and  thoughts  of  a  woman  of  genius, 
born  to  conquer  a  king  and  subjugate  a  court,  are  not 
to  be  fathomed  in  a  few  weeks,  even  by  one  to  whom 
many  other  women  have  laid  bare  the  mysterious 
workings  of  a  woman's  heart. 

"I  have  brought  you  your  despatch,  Madame," 
he  said,  choosing  his  words  slowly,  and  conscious  of  his 


368  No.  101 

clumsiness  before  the  ease  and  tact  of  this  bourgeoise 
adventuress. 

"Yes,"  she  took  it  almost  indifferently,  but  the 
flash  that  turned  her  eyes  from  grey  to  blue,  the  quick 
movement  of  the  locket  on  her  breast,  would  have  re- 
vealed much  to  another  woman.  She  placed  it  on  the 
table  beside  a  tiny  heap  of  torn  papers.  Andre"  recog- 
nised these  fragments.  They  had  once  been  the  lettre 
de  cachet  for  Denise,  which  Madame  had  destroyed  be- 
fore he  came.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  though  the  despatch 
is  useless  now,  none  the  less  I  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  Useless,"  Andre"  stammered. 

"  For  two  reasons,"  she  smiled.  "  The  agent  from 
whom  you  forced  that  despatch  at  the  peril  of  your  life 
took  poison  an  hour  after  he  was  lodged  at  the  Bastile. 
You  had  not  heard  ?  Well,  the  dead  tell  no  embarrass- 
ing tales.  Secondly,"  she  pulled  out  her  watch,  "  the 
Jacobites  have  already  been  informed  in  the  King's 
own  handwriting  that  they  might  have  a  forgery  in  my 
writing  imposed  on  them,  and  that  information  has 
already  been  privately  conveyed  to  the  English  Govern- 
ment. The  English  would  not  give  a  sou  for  the  secret 
despatch  to-day." 

So  that  was  how  Madame  had  spent  her  night,  and 
it  had  left  her  radiant  as  Aphrodite  rising  from  the 
foam,  while  he,  Andre",  was  oppressed  by  the  weariness 
of  the  defeated. 

"  Yes,  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  is  safe,  you  are 


Fortune's  Banter  369 

safe,  Vicornte,  and  I  am  safe,  and  the  King  is  happy 
and  well.  The  only  persons  who  are  not  safe  and 
happy,"  she  smiled  with  the  daintiest  irony,  "  are  or 
will  be  some  of  your  enemies  and  mine.  My  hour  has 
come.  I  shall  not  ask  them  to  forgive,  nor  will  they 
forget." 

Had  Denise  been  in  the  room  she  would  have  re- 
called the  words  of  the  girl  whom  Andre"  had  conducted 
to  the  Barrier  of  St.  I,ouis.  This  woman  was  the 
destiny  of  France,  against  whom  men  fought  in  vain. 
As  it  was,  Mont  Rouge's  letter  in  his  breast  pocket 
seemed  to  cry  out,  and  Andre"  shivered.  Madame  de 
Pompadour's  triumph  was  complete. 

"  No,  they  will  not  forget,"  Madame  continued, 
' '  because  they  conspired  to  ruin  you,  my  friend,  you 
to  whom  Antoinette  de  Pompadour  will  always  be 
grateful,  for  when  you  might  have  deserted  her  and 
saved  yourself  you  refused.  You  may  not  forgive  me, 
but  I  can  punish  them,  and  I  will." 

Andr6  impulsively  took  her  hand.  "  Forget  my 
words,  Madame,"  he  cried. 

"They  were  forgotten  hours  ago,"  she  answered 
softly.  "  I  only  remember  your  oath  of  loyalty  and 
how  nobly  you  kept  it." 

It  was  the  vivanditre  at  Fontenoy  who  was  looking 
at  him  now;  nay,  rather  it  was  the  woman  the  beating 
of  whose  heart  he  had  heard  on  the  secret  stair.  Death 
alone  would  silence  that  beating  now. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  you  are  again  the  Captain  of  the 


370  No.  101 

Queeu's  Guards,  the  King  has  promised,  and  you  shall 
be  Minister  for  War.  And,"  she  unrolled  a  sheet  of 
paper,  "if  you  choose,  to-morrow  in  the  Galerie  des 
Glaces  they  shall  know  that  before  long  you  will  be 
Marquis  de  Beau  Sejour  as  well  as  Vicomte  de  Nerac. 
But  neither  I  nor  you  can  settle  that,  nor  the  King, 
for  kings  and  men  alone,"  she  laughed  gently,  "  can- 
not make  a  man's  fate." 

"  I  thank  you,  Madame.  His  Majesty,  I  hope,  will 
know  that  I  am  his  servant  always,  but  my  decision  is 
already  taken,  and  from  to-day  I  shall  not  live  at  Ver- 
sailles nor  Paris;  De  Nerac  is  to  be  my  home,  and  per- 
haps some  day  Beau  Sejour." 

Madame  had  dropped  the  roll  of  paper  in  an  aston- 
ishment she  failed  to  master.  Her  lips  parted  as  she 
looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  Yes,"  Andre  repeated.  "  The  Marquise  de  Beau 
Sejour  and  I  have  decided.  Nothing  can  alter  that 
decision." 

' '  Is  it  because  of  me  ?  ' '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

' '  No,  Marquise.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  before  I 
knew  Mademoiselle  had  made  up  hers." 

Madame  endeavoured  to  penetrate  his  motives. 
There  were  mysteries  fascinating  to  a  woman,  the 
wrestlings  of  the  spirit  that  alter  a  human  soul,  to  be 
read  in  that  handsome  face  so  grey,  so  tried,  yet  so 
nobly  firm.  Madame  de  Pompadour  could  discover 
no  more  than  that  a  new  element,  born  of  spiritual 
travail  in  the  night  that  had  passed,  had  entered  into 


Fortune's  Banter  371 

Andre's  life.  What  it  was,  whence  it  came,  and  why, 
baffled  her.  It  is,  perhaps,  well  for  women  of  genius 
to  learn  early  that  there  are  gifts  of  the  spirit  to  a  few 
men  that  it  is  not  for  a  woman  to  comprehend,  just  as 
there  are  impulses  in  a  woman  that  the  choicest  soul 
of  man  must  accept  by  faith  in  the  acts  in  which  they 
find  expression. 

"  Then  your  ambitions  are  gone?"  she  asked,  with 
that  touch  of  sadness  that  can  quicken  sympathy  into 
inspiration.  "  You  are  destined  to  be  great,  and,"  her 
eyes  pierced  the  vision  of  the  future,  "  I  desired  to  help 
to  make  you  great." 

"  Madame,"  he  answered  simply,  "  I  have  achieved 
my  greatest  ambition,  and  I  believe  I  can  serve  my 
France  better  at  Beau  Sejour  than  at  Versailles." 

She  was  playing  the  great  game  that  was  her  life, 
and  she  was  not  beaten  yet. 

"And  '  No.  101 '?  "  she  asked  gravely. 

"  There  will  be  treachery,  no  doubt,  in  the  future," 
Andre  replied,  "  there  may  even  be  a  '  No.  101 ';  but 
the  '  No.  101  '  that  you  and  I,  Madame,  have  fought 
with  will  not  trouble  you  again." 

Madame  de  Pompadour  studied  the  speaker's  face, 
reflecting  on  the  mysterious  confidence  in  this  anwer. 
The  riddle  was  as  puzzling  to  her  to-day  as  it  had 
been  at  Fontenoy.  Andre,  she  saw,  could  have  told 
her  much;  but  she  also  felt  he  would  never  tell.  And 
it  was  not  the  least  of  her  rare  gifts  instinctively  to 
recognise  when  to  stop  and  when  to  yield.  The  future 


372  No.  101 

was  her  absorbing  care  always,  and  the  Vicomte  de 
Nerac  would  belong  to  that  future. 

"You  keep  your  best  news  to  the  end,"  she  said 
with  graceful  gratitude.  ' '  Thanks  to  you,  Vicomte,  I 
hope  I  have  heard  the  last  of  '  No.  101.'  I  shall  not 
forget  you  at  Beau  Sejour;  do  not,  in  the  years  to  come, 
think  too  harshly  of  me.  Good-bye!  " 

"  Adieu,  Madame,"  he  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 
"Adieu!" 

And  as  the  door  closed  on  him  she  knew,  if  ' '  No. 
101  "  had  defeated  her  after  all,  that  whatever  the  past 
had  been,  whatever  the  future  might  bring,  she  would 
never  triumph  over  any  man  as  she  had  triumphed  that 
morning  over  Andre"  de  Nerac.  Nor  would  he  ever 
forget  the  salon  of  Madame  de  Pompadour.  The  spell 
of  a  woman's  genius  once  cast  on  any  man  touched 
to  the  finer  issues  of  human  destinies  can  never  be 
effaced. 

But  one  thing  remained,  and  it  was  settled  in  the 
parlour  of  "The  Cock  with  the  Spurs  of  Gold,"  in 
which  the  Comtesse  des  Forges,  the  Due  de  Pontchar- 
train,  and  the  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge,  still  a  prisoner, 
unknown  to  the  Court  and  the  King,  were  waiting  for 
Andre. 

They  had  dimly  guessed  why  they  had  been  sum- 
moned, and  their  bitter  fears  were  confirmed  by  the 
sight  of  Denise,  whom  Andre*  had  brought  with 
him. 

"  The  Comte  de  Mont  Rouge,"  Andre  began  without 


Fortune's  Banter  373 

ceremony,  "  was  arrested  last  night  by  myself.  The 
reason  will  be  found  in  these  three  letters,  copies  of 
which  I  now  give  you." 

Denise  alone  was  surprised.  Andre"  had  been  given 
something  at  the  Barrier  of  St.  I^ouis  after  all.  The 
letters  proved  to  have  been  written  by  Mont  Rouge, 
the  Duke,  and  the  Comtesse. 

"  If  I  chose,"  Andre  continued,  "  all  of  you  three 
might  now  be  in  the  Bastile,  noble  though  you  be. 
But  the  Marquise  de  Beau  Se"jour,  who  has  not  read 
those  letters,  has  asked  me  to  spare  you  because  you 
were  once  her  friends.  I  have  agreed." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  your  indulgence,  Mademoiselle," 
the  Comtesse  burst  out,  beside  herself  with  vindictive 
rage. 

"  Nor  will  Madame  de  Pompadour,"  Andre"  answered 
drily.  "  The  originals  of  those  letters  are  now  in  her 
possession  in  a  sealed  envelope.  She  does  not  yet 
know  what  they  contain ;  may  I  hope  you  will  never 
make  it  necessary  for  her  to  ask  for  permission  from 
the  Marquise  de  Beau  Sejour  to  break  that  seal?  You 
may  not  find  either  the  King  or  Madame  as  indulgent 
as  the  lady  whom  you  have  wronged." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  Duke,  after  a  pause,  "  the 
pleasantest  task  for  a  gentleman  in  life  is  to  confess  to 
a  lady  that  he  has  been  a  fool,  when  the  folly  has  been 
inspired  by  herself.  You  will  give  me  that  pleasure 
now." 

And  with  his  finished  smile  he  had  kissed  her  hand 


374  No.  101 

and  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room.  Not  so  Mont 
Rouge. 

"You  shall  give  me  satisfaction,  Vicomte,"  he 
growled  sulkily. 

Andre  looked  him  all  over  with  a  quiet  scorn. 
"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  he  said,  "  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac 
does  not  cross  swords  with  traitors  nor  with  men  who 
use  loaded  dice." 

Then  he  took  Denise  to  her  carriage  and  returned. 

"  And  when  your  sword  arm  is  healed,"  he  added, 
"  two  other  gentlemen  have  a  prior  claim,  and  I  under- 
stand they  will  both  insist  on  it,  the  Comte  des  Forges," 
he  bowed  to  the  Comtesse,  "and  my  friend  the  Vicomte 
de  St.  Ben&it,  whose  name  you  pledged  to  an  English 
traitor  without  his  knowledge,  and  whom  you  tricked 
into  being  the  accomplice  of  a  card-sharper's  rascality. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of  showing 
you  that  for  such  as  you  the  Vicomte  de  Nerac  does 
not  use  a  sword,  but  his  hunting  whip." 

And  Andre  left  him  to  his  fate. 

Neither  he  nor  Denise  altered  their  decision.  To 
Beau  Be" jour  they  went,  and  at  Beau  Sejour  they  re- 
mained. Had  you  visited,  as  so  many  travellers  then 
and  since  have  done,  the  famous  chateau,  two  questions 
you  would  certainly  have  been  tempted  to  ask :  To 
whom  had  that  noble  coat  of  arms  in  the  great  hall 
once  belonged,  a  coat  not  of  the  Beau  Sejour  nor  of  the 
De  Neracs  ?  And  the  other  would  rise  to  your  lips  in 


Fortune's  Banter  375 

the  crypt  of  the  village  church,  where  amidst  the  name- 
less tombs  of  many  who  bear  the  same  coat  of  arms 
with  the  same  motto  lay  a  single  slab.  "  Francois  de 
St.  Amant"  is  all  the  name  it  bears.  It  has  no  date, 
no  heraldic  symbol  to  show  why  it  is  there,  but  at  the 
foot  are  cut  the  familiar  words,  "  Dieu  Le  Vengeur" 
Nor  could  any  one  now  or  since  explain  why  these 
things  were  so,  nor  why  beside  that  simple  slab  lay 
for  many  years  another  with  no  inscription  on  it  at  all, 
a  tomb  waiting,  as  it  were  for  some  one  whom  death 
had  not  yet  claimed.  To  the  villagers,  happier  than 
any  serfs  on  any  demesne  in  France,  these  mysteries 
were  simply  the  will  of  Madame  la  Marquise,  nor  did 
the  curious  ever  succeed  in  getting  a  more  satisfying 
answer. 

The  villagers  were  right.  It  was  Denise's  act,  and 
Andre,  whatever  he  may  have  guessed,  never  asked 
why,  for  of  certain  events  in  the  past  both  he  and  she 
were  content  with  the  better  part  of  silence.  Friends 
came  to  them  from  Paris  and  Versailles;  they  heard  of 
all  that  was  being  done  at  the  Court,  of  the  unshaken 
supremacy  of  Madame  de  Pompadour;  they  lived 
through  the  years  of  hollow  truce  that  followed  the 
war  of  Fontenoy,  through  the  terrible  humiliation  of 
the  Seven  Years'  War  that  followed  the  hollow  truce, 
through  the  sombre  and  bleak  tragedies  of  misery,  dis- 
grace, and  starvation,  defeat  on  sea  and  land  for  their 
France.  Once  only  did  they  go  together  to  Paris,  in 
1768,  to  attend  the  funeral  of  Queen  Marie  I^eczinska. 


376  No.  101 

And  once  only  before  then  Andre  had  been  summoned 
alone  to  Versailles,  to  say  good-bye  to  the  dying  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour,  to  find  her  a  wasted  skeleton,  her 
face  a  pitiful  wreck  of  the  beauty  which  twenty  years 
before  had  stormed  the  privileged  citadel  of  royalty  and 
the  noblesse^  but  a  woman  in  whom  the  spirit  and  the 
wit  that  had  dominated  France  were  unquenched  and 
unquenchable. 

Nor  did  Andre  ever  again  forget  that  April  day  with 
its  chilling  rain.  He  stood  at  the  windows  of  the 
Palace,  where,  if  you  will,  you  can  stand  to-day,  and 
watched  the  cortege  that  carried  the  last  remains  of  the 
Marquise  de  Pompadour  from  the  Cour  d'  Honneur  into 
the  Place  d'Armes  and  down  the  Avenue  de  Paris 
to  the  magnificent  sepulchre  that  had  been  prepared  in 
the  Church  of  the  Capuchins  in  the  Place  Vendome 
for  the  Mistress  of  France. 

To  one  who  had  heard  the  crystal-gazer's  prediction, 
and  had  lived  through  these  twenty  years,  there  was 
more  than  a  sermon  in  the  King's  heartless  comment 
as  he,  too,  eyed  the  long  procession  wind  away  in  the 
drenching  squalls. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  has  a  cold  day  for  her  jour- 
ney." That  was  all. 

And  Queen  Marie  did  not  exaggerate  when  she 
wrote,  "She  is  forgotten  as  if  she  had  never  existed. 
Such  is  the  way  of  the  world."  What  a  world  is  this, 
and  how  does  Fortune  banter  us!  as  a  greater  person 
than  Queen  Marie  remarked. 


Fortune's  Banter  377 

When  Andre"  returned  to  his  chateau  from  that 
melancholy  visit,  Denise  asked  no  questions,  not  even 
about  the  new  ring  he  wore,  with  a  crest  she  knew  and 
the  historic  motto,  "Discret  et  Fidlle. ' '  Versailles  and 
Fontenoy  alike  belonged  to  a  buried  past. 

Still  less  had  either  reason  or  wish  to  witness  the 
degradation  of  the  Palace  of  Louis  Quatorze  by  Ma- 
dame du  Barry,  under  the  grandson  for  whose  death  the 
nation  that  had  once  called  him  "  I^ouis  the  Well  Be- 
loved "  now  prayed.  With  the  accession  of  I/>uis  XVI. 
and  Marie  Antoinette  they  both  believed  that  the  night 
of  bankruptcy  and  shame  had  at  last  passed,  and  death 
in  his  mercy  took  them  away  before  the  belief  could  be 
shattered,  before  the  silver  trumpets  of  the  nobles  of 
the  Chevau-legers  de  la  Garde  de  la  Maison  du  Roi, 
that  had  blown  for  the  monarchy  of  France  on  so  many 
stricken  fields,  were  silenced  by  the  tumbrils  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie  for  ever.  Perhaps  they  were  happier  in  their 
ignorance  than  those  whose  footsteps  to-day  so  inquisi- 
tively mock  the  proud  silence  of  the  Galerie  des  Glaces, 
whose  voices  scare  the  ghostly  echoes  in  the  loneliness 
of  what  was  once  the  salon  of  Madame  de  Pompadour  ; 
for  these  are  reminded  at  every  turn  that  in  the  new 
France,  Versailles,  once  the  emblem  of  a  nation's  great- 
ness, is  now  only  a  museum  of  pictures;  that  if  it  has  a 
history  for  the  French  children  playing  on  the  terrace 
it  is  because  it  is  a  tomb  of  bitter  memories,  of  blood 
shed  not  only  by  the  hand  of  an  alien  foe,  of  the  dis- 
aster that  cries  out  for  a  nation's  revenge,  but  is  not 


378  No.  101 

blessed  with  the  heritage  of  a  people's  love,  still  less 
has  the  right  to  ask  for  a  people's  tears. 

Les  chars,  les  royales  merveilles 

Des  gardes  les  nocturnes  vieilles, 

Tout  a  fui !    Des  grandeurs  tu  n'es  plus  le  sejour 

Mais  le  sommeil,  la  solitude 

Dieux  jadis  inconnus,  et  les  arts  et  I'e'tude 

Composent  aujourd'hui  ta  cour  ! 


^  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete    Catalogues   sent 
on  application 


"  The  greatest  book  of  the  year."  —Rochester  Herald. 


Monsieur  Martin 

A  Romance  of  the  Great  Swedish  War 

By 

Wymond  Carey 

Author  of  "  No.  101,"  "  For  the  White  Ro»e,"  etc. 


Crown  octavo.      (By  mail,  $1.35)     .      .     .     Net,  $  1.20 

A  romance  of  the  great  Swedish  War,  when 
Charles  XII.  was  filling  all  Europe  with  tur- 
moil. It  is  a  novel  of  energy,  of  rapid  and 
fierce  action,  of  remarkable  character  drawing. 

"  Mr.  Carey  has  given  us  much  pleasure,  and  we 
are  glad  to  praise  this  book.  It  has  life,  incident, 
and  nearly  all  the  qualities  that  give  worth  to  ro- 
mance."— Baltimore  Sun. 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  than  the  stirring  pictures 
of  the  gay,  dissolute,  reckless,  and  intriguing  life  at 
Dresden.  The  story  hums  and  sparkles  with  real 
life." — Chicago  Post. 

"A  story  with  a  lofty  ideal,  and  will  hold  the  read«r 
from  cover  to  cover."  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


New  York  —  G.   P.   Putnam's   Sons  —  London 


"Something   distinctly   out   of  the   common,  well  conceived, 
vividly  told,  and  stirring  from  start  to  finish."— London  Telegraph, 


The 

Scarlet  Pimpernel 

By  Baroness  Orczy 

Author  of  "The  Emperor's  Candlesticks"  etc. 

A  dramatic  romance  of  the  French  Revolution  and 
the  Emigre"  Nobles.  The  "  Scarlet  Pimpernel"  was  the 
chief  of  a  daring  band  of  young  Englishmen  leagued  to- 
gether to  rescue  members  of  the  French  nobility  from 
the  Terrorists  of  France.  The  identity  of  the  bril- 
liant and  resourceful  leader  is  sacredly  guarded  by 
his  followers  and  eagerly  sought  by  the  agents  of 
the  French  Revolutionary  Government.  Scenes  of 
intrigue,  danger,  and  devotion,  follow  close  one  upon 
another.  The  heroine  is  a  charming,  fearless  wo- 
man who  in  the  end  shares  the  honors  with  the 
"  Scarlet  Pimpernel."  In  a  stage  version  prepared  by 
the  author  The  Scarlet  Pimpernel  was  one  of  the 
dramatic  successes  of  the  last  London  season,  Mr. 
Fred  Terry  and  Miss  Julia  Neilson  acting  the  leading 
rdles.  

Crown  8vo,  with  Illustrations  from  Photographs 
of  the  Play,  $I.5O 


New  Yofh  •>  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  'London 


A  Fascinating  Romance 

Love  Alone  is 
Lord 

By  F.  Franhfort  Moore 

Author  of  "  The  Jessamy  Bride"  etc. 

This  latest  story  by  the  author  of  The  Jes- 
samy Bride  has  for  its  theme  the  only  really 
ideal  love  affair  in  the  romantic  life  of  Lord 
Byron.  The  story  opens  during  the  poet's 
boyhood  and  tells  of  his  early  devotion  to 
his  cousin,  Mary  Chaworth.  Mr.  Moore  has 
followed  history  very  closely,  and  his  descrip- 
tions of  London  society  when  Byron  was  the 
rage  are  as  accurate  as  they  are  dramatic. 
Lady  Caroline  Lamb  figures  prominently  in 
the  story,  but  the  heroine  continues  to  be 
Byron's  early  love,  Mary  Chaworth.  His  at- 
tachment for  his  cousin  was  the  strongest  and 
most  enduring  of  his  life,  and  it  failed  of  re- 
alization only  by  the  narrowest  of  chances. 

Crown  8vo,  $L50 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


••Miss  Reed  is  delightfully  witty,  delightfully  humorous,  de- 
lightfully cynical,  delightfully  sane,  and  above  all,  delightfully 
spontaneous. '  '—Philadelphia  Telegraph. 


At  the  Sign  of 
The  Jack  o'  Lantern 


By  MYRTLE  REED 

Author  of  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  "The  Master's  Violin,"  etc. 


Uniform  witH  "Lavender  and  Old  Lace" 

6*.     Cloth,  net,  $1.5O;  Red  Leather,  net,  $2.OO 

Antique  Calf,  net,  $2. ,50 

Lavender  Silk,  net,  $3.5O 


A  genial  story  of  the  adventures  of  a  New 
York  newspaper  man  and  his  young  wife,  who, 
at  the  end  of  their  honeymoon,  go  to  an  unex- 
plored heirloom  in  the  shape  of  a  peculiar  old 
house,  where  many  strange  and  amusing  things 
happen.  There  is  a  mystery  in  the  house,  as 
well  as  a  significant  portrait  of  an  uncanny  cat. 
A  vein  of  delicate  humor,  and  a  homely  philos- 
ophy runs  through  the  story. 

A  complete  descriptive  circular  of  Miss  Reed's 
books  sent  on  application. 

New  York  —  Q.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  —  London 


A     000128461     1 


